TRAILS  TO  WOOi;:. 
AND  WATERS 


CLARENCE  HAWKES 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


NOSTRILS   DISTENDED,   EYES    BLAZING,   His   WHOLE 

ATTITUDE   BELLIGERENT  See  page  146 


Trails  to 
Woods  and  Waters 


By 
CLARENCE  HAWKES 

Author  of  "Shaggy  coat"  "Black  Bruint' 
"  King  of  theThundering  Herd,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED  BT 

CHARLES  COPELAND 


PHILADELPHIA 

GEORGE  W.  JACOBS  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
GEORGE  W.  JACOBS  &  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 
Printedin  U.  S.  A. 


Dedicated  to  the  Boy  Scouts  and  the 
Campfire  Girls  of  America  by  one 
who  sympathizes  with  them  in  all 
their  outdoors  sports  and  recreations 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 

Some  of  the  material  published 
in  this  book  has  appeared  in  two 
of  Mr.  Hawkes'  earlier  works  which 
are  now  out  of  print. 


TIJE  BOOKS  OF  CLARENCE 
HAWKES 

IT  is  with  a  feeling  of  awe  and  wonder  that 
I  take  up  each  new  book  from  the  pen  of 
Clarence  Hawkes.  Here  is  the  born  nature- 
lover,  the  woodsman,  the  chronicler  and  the 
painter  of  mental  pictures  who  for  a  few  brief 
years  looked  into  the  pulsing  heart  of  Nature, 
focused  his  mental  camera  upon  her  during  a 
few  brilliant  days,  and  then  suddenly,  with  a 
stroke  like  lightning,  all  the  world  became 
dark. 

The  work  of  Clarence  Hawkes  marks  the 
triumph  of  an  indomitable  human  Soul  over 
darkness  and  despair.  With  marvellous 
fidelity  he  paints  what  he  has  seen  and  yet 
remembers,  and  for  the  rest  he  gathers  his 
share  of  wild  animal  lore, — just  as  we  all 
do, — from  the  hunter,  the  trapper,  the  bird- 
man  and  the  brother  naturalist.  The  natural- 
ist or  nature  lover  who  writes  only  what  he 


6        The  Books  of  Clarence  Hawkes 

himself  has  seen  never  goes  far;  and  soon  he 
begins  to  travel  in  circles.  From  the  great 
Audubon  downward  the  wise  nature  writer 
judiciously  supplements  his  own  observations 
with  the  testimony  of  others,  thus  to  make  the 
story  complete. 

Therefore  fear  not  to  accept  the  stories  of 
Clarence  Hawkes  as  being  true  to  life;  for  he 
works  "  even  as  you  and  I."  The  mental  pic- 
tures of  youth  often  grow  sharper  with  age. 
His  stories  ring  true  to  life.  I  read  them  to 
my  grandchildren  with  confidence,  while  they 
listen  with  rapt  attention.  The  wild-animal 
hero  tale  has  its  legitimate  place  in  literature. 
When  the  impossible  is  carefully  eliminated, 
and  the  details  are  true  to  life,  what  more  does 
any  one  desire? 

Therefore,  take  my  friends  "  Shovelhorns  " 
the  moose,  "  Shaggycoat "  the  beaver,  and 
"  Black  Bruin,"  and  make  much  of  them;  for 
they  are  worth  it. 

And  if  your  ego  becomes  too  colossal,  if  you 
are  tempted  to  rail  at  Fate,  and  denounce  your 
Luck,  take  "  Hitting  the  Dark  Trail "  and 


The  Books  of  Clarence  Hawkes       7 

sit  down  all  alone  to  read  it.  As  the  story 
unfolds,  you  will — like  me — begin  to  realize 
how  much  you  enjoy  in  seeing  nature  day  by 
day,  how  much  you  have  to  be  thankful  for, 
and  then  how  wicked  you  are  when  you 
upbraid  the  Fate  that  denies  you  the  last  ten 
per  cent  of  life.  Finally,  you  will  look  into 
your  own  soul,  solemnly  ask  yourself:  "  Could 
I  be  as  brave  as  he  is,  were  I  in  his  place? " 
and  with  chastened  spirit  you  will  rise  up 
silently  vowing  to  be  a  better  man. 

WILLIAM  T.  HORNADAY. 

Director  New  York 
Zoological  Park. 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTORY — THE  TRAIL  TO  WOODS 

AND  WATERS 13 

I.    A  TALE  FROM  THE  SKIDWAY       .        .23 
II.     THE  STORY  OF  WILLOW  BROOK          .      61 

III.  A  LITTLE  DAPPLE  FOOL  .        .       75 

IV.  THE  FAMILY  OF  BOB-WHITE       .        .85 
V.    THE  BUSY  BEE 109 

VI.  DOWNSTREAM  IN  A  CANOE  .  .129 

VII.  JACKING  AND  MOOSE-CALLING    .  .137 

VIII.  IN  BEAVER-LAND       .        .        .  .149 

IX.  ONE'S  OWN  BACK  DOOR-YARD  .  .167 

X.  A  WARY  MOTHER     .        .         .  .185 

XL  A  LIVELY  BEE  HUNT         .        .  .203 

XII.  THE  SPECKLED  HEIFER'S  CALF  .  .219 

XIII.  CAMPING  WITH  OLD  BEN    .        .  .239 

XIV.  FOREST  FOOTFALLS    .        .        .  .261 
XV.  IN  THE  HUNTER'S  MOON     .        .  .273 

XVI.    A  WINTER  WALK      ....     287 

XVII.    CAMP  FIRE  LEGENDS  OF  THE  WOOD 

FOLKS 309 


List  of  Illustrations 

Nostrils  distended,  eyes  blazing,  his 

whole  attitude  belligerent Frontispiece 

The  fawn  had  not  taken  three  jumps 

when  she  was  after  him Facing  page   82 

He  crept  forward  foot  by  foot  until 

he  was  almost  upon  him "         "     102 

It  was  as  pretty  a  wilderness  picture 
as  ever  delighted  the  eyes  of  a 
woodsman  "  "  142 

Uttering  a  series  of  most  blood- 
curdling screeches  and  snarls. .  "  "  234 

'Mr.  Fox  did  not  finish  his  remarks     "         "     260 

Turning  to  look  over  my  shoulder 

as  I  jumped "         "    286 

He  stamped  and  snorted  again,  this 

time  giving  a  short  whistle. ...      "         "    304 


INTRODUCTORY 

THE  TRAIL  TO  WOODS  AND 
WATERS 


INTRODUCTORY 

The  Trail  to  Woods  and  Waters 

THE  trail  to  woods  and  waters  was  a  double 
one  that  I  followed  with  eager  feet  in 
summer  or  in  winter. 

The  first  branch  of  this  winding  trail 
started  just  under  an  old  pair  of  bars,  where 
we  let  the  cows  through  from  a  crooked  lane 
into  the  barnyard. 

Each  morning  I  let  down  these  bars,  and 
started  the  cows  for  pasture  and  each  night 
I  put  them  up  again  when  the  cows  were 
driven  home. 

The  trail  wound  about  many  a  grassy 
hillock  or  mossy  hollow  and  around  many 
a  jagged  stone  through  the  lane  to  the  pas- 
ture, for  it  was  a  cows'  path,  and  all  cow 
paths  are  crooked.  Many  a  sharp  stone 
lurked  in  ambush  for  bare  feet. 


1 6  Introductory 

What  boy  of  you  who  reads  these  pages 
ever  warmed  his  cold  feet  on  a  frosty  morn- 
ing in  the  flattened  down  grass  where  the  old 
cow  had  slept  the  night  before,  keeping  the 
earth  warm  and  inviting  for  blue,  aching 
toes? 

All  the  way  of  its  many  turns  and  twists, 
this  trail  to  the  woods  was  fringed  with  weeds 
and  grasses,  with  flowers  and  bushes,  many 
of  which  were  hung  with  delicious  fruit. 

Just  at  the  point  where  the  lane  led  into 
the  pasture,  a  golden  sweet  apple  tree  stood. 
Here  I  always  stopped,  not  only  to  refresh 
myself  with  a  half  dozen  apples,  but  also  to 
shy  apples  at  the  red  squirrels  that  were  al- 
ways scolding  and  frisking  about  in  the 
tree. 

Further  out  in  the  pasture  the  trail  led 
under  a  leaning  apple  tree.  The  tree  was  so 
much  inclined  that  I  called  it  the  leaning 
tower.  I  could  stand  perfectly  erect  and 
walk  up  the  trunk  of  the  tree  without  taking 
hold  with  my  hands — the  only  tree  on  the 
farm  that  admitted  of  such  a  stunt.  Here, 


Introductory  1 7 

perched  upon  the  trunk  of  this  friendly  tree, 
about  twenty  feet  from  the  ground,  I  would 
sit  for  five  minutes,  looking  off  across  the 
country  to  see  if  anything  out  of  the  ordinary 
was  doing.  Perhaps  in  the  mowing,  beyond 
the  pasture  I  would  spy  a  woodchuck  sitting 
erect,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  small 
black  stump,  or  maybe  I  would  discover  a 
hawk  sailing  high  up  in  the  heavens.  If  so,  I 
would  watch  the  big  bird  and  try  to  discover 
what  he  was  hunting. 

Further  on,  the  trail  led  by  great  clumps 
of  raspberries!  and  blackberries.  At  these 
spots,  I  always  stopped  for  refreshments. 
Only  those  who  have  tasted  the  wild  fruit 
directly  from  the  vine  or  bush,  know  its  de- 
licious flavor. 

Still  further  on  the  trail  led  into  a  maple 
grove  and  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  sweet 
green  woods.  In  this  maple  grove  I  loved  to 
linger,  for  it  was  the  sugar  bush. 

It  did  not  take  much  imagination  to  see 
the  trees  each  with  a  painted  bucket  dan- 
gling upon  its  side,  or  to  hear  the  musical 


1 8  Introductory 

drip,  drip,  drip,  of s the  sap  into  the  pails. 
This  was  what  I  called  "  The  Song  of  the 
Sap."  To  make  the  picture  complete  how- 
ever, I  had  to  imagine  white  clouds  of  smoke 
and  steam  pouring  from  the  sugar  house,  and 
this  was  difficult  on  a  hot  summer's  day. 

The  sugar  orchard  was  the  home  of  the 
gray  squirrels,  and  it  was  a  delight  to  sit  per- 
fectly still  upon  an  old  log  and  see  if  one 
could  discover  a  squirrel  dropping  down 
maple  seeds,  and  if  so  to  spy  out  the  gray 
fellow  high  up  in  the  treetop  balancing  him- 
self nicely  upon  a  small  limb,  getting  his 
breakfast. 

In  hot  weather  it  was  so  cool  and  sweet  in 
the  slumbrous  aisles  of  the  maple  grove  that 
there  was  always  a  temptation  to  linger,  while 
the  silver-footed  moments  of  summertime 
sped  by. 

The  trail  to  the  waters  was  out  in  the 
meadow  in  front  of  the  old  farmhouse  in 
which  I  lived.  But  the  trail  did  not  start 
there. 

One  day  I  took  my  lunch  and  followed  the 


Introductory  1 9 

little  stream  for  a  mile  up  through  the 
meadows  to  its  source,  just  to  see  where  the 
trail  really  did  begin. 

I  tramped  by  many  a  swaying  clump  of 
willows,  or  green  cattails.  The  sweet  flag  I 
always  marked  down  in  my  mind,  for  I  would 
come  some  other  day  and  dig  the  root  which, 
when  it  was  cured  with  sugar  and  spice,  was 
fit  for  a  king. 

Many  a  time  I  was  fooled,  thinking  I  had 
found  the  beginning  of  the  trail,  but  when  I 
would  poke  away  the  grass  I  would  find  that 
the  tiny  stream  went  still  further  back  for  its 
source.  At  last  I  found  it  however,  high  up 
in  a  hillside.  It  was  a  small  basin  perhaps  a 
foot  across,  fringed  with  ferns  and  water 
grasses  and  in  its  middle  the  water  pure,  cool 
and  sweet,  bubbled  up  in  a  tiny  living  foun- 
tain. Up  from  the  cool  sweet  earth  it  gushed, 
a  thing  of  wonder  and  beauty. 

It  was  evening  when  I  returned  home  and 
I  was  late  in  driving  home  the  cows,  but  I  felt 
well  repaid  for  the  long  tramp,  for  I  had 
found  the  secret  of  the  little  stream.  I  had 


2O  Introductory 

followed  the  trail  to  the  waters  from  its  very 
beginning. 

The  course  of  the  trail  from  that  point  was 
well  known  to  me. 

The  source  alone  had  been  its  mystery. 

I  knew  all  its  deep  holes  and  the  rapids, 
where  the  speckled  trout  loved  to  lie,  and  the 
pebbly  shallows  where  the  minnows  darted, 
and  the  deep  hole  where  the  lazy  suckers 
stood  with  head  up-stream  sucking  in  their 
dinner. 

I  knew  the  bank  where  the  noisy  kingfisher 
had  his  nest,  and  his  favorite  stump  from 
which  he  loved  to  fish. 

The  broad  pool  where  the  heron  speared 
fish,  and  the  tall  grasses  that  hid  the  musk- 
rat's  house. 

All  the  little  waterfalls,  including  the 
one  that  turned  the  small  water  wheel,  I 
knew. 

I  knew  the  brook  in  spring  when  it  ran 
riot,  in  summer  when  it  had  dwindled  to  a 
tiny  thread,  in  the  autumn,  when  the  life 
along  its  banks  was  nipped  by  the  first  frost, 


Introductory  2 1 

and  in  the  winter  when  Jack  Frost  had  sealed 
up  all  the  pools  for  their  winter  sleep. 

I  had  followed  this  trail  to  the  waters  often, 
down  to  the  broad  deep  mill  pond,  where  once 
I  thought  it  ended. 

The  mill  pond  was,  to  this  trail  to  the 
waters,  what  the  forest  was  to  the  trail  to  the 
woods — its  consummation,  and  end.  The 
point  at  which  it  ceased  to  be,  and  became 
something  larger  and  better. 


CHAPTER  I 
A  TALE  FROM  THE  SKIDWAYi 


CHAPTER  I 

A  Tale  from  the  Skidway 

A  BARE-FOOTED,  tanned-faced  boy,  dressed 
in  brown  denim  overalls  and  a  jumper,  sat 
astride  a  mammoth  pine  log  in  the  mill  yard, 
carving  his  initials  in  bold  letters  in  the  soft 
bark  of  the  pine.  He  whistled  and  smiled 
as  he  carved  and  seemed  well  content  with 
his  occupation  and  surroundings. 

It  was  always  a  pleasure  for  the  boy  to  be 
about  the  mill.  The  hurrying  belts,  the  mad 
gearing  and  the  screaming  circular  saw  were 
all  wonderful.  There  was  a  certain  poetry 
and  rhythm  in  this  mad  rushing  machinery 
that  fascinated,  even  while  it  terrified.  The 
boy  never  could  quite  understand  how  the 
water  which  slipped  so  easily  into  the  end  of 
the  flume,  only  laving  his  hand  slightly  as  he 
held  it  in  the  current,  could  be  turned  into 
such  mad  careering  force. 


26         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

When  one  tired  of  %the  hum  of  wheels  and 
the  pounding  of  belting  and  the  hideous 
shrieking  of  the  great  circular  saw,  there  was 
always  the  mill  yard  to  flee  to.  There  the 
sounds  from  the  mill  were  all  subdued  and 
the  placid  mill  pond,  and  a  fringe  of  green 
hills  beyond  offset  the  turbulence  of  the  mill. 

The  initials  were  finally  completed  and  the 
boy  drove  his  knife  deep  into  the  log  and 
viewed  his  carving  critically. 

It  did  not  just  suit  him,  the  bark  should 
come  off,  to  make  a  panel,  and  then  the 
initials  should  be  carved  in  the  wood  instead 
of  the  bark,  this  would  be  much  more  artistic, 
so  he  gashed  the  bark  savagely,  making  a 
rather  unsymmetrical  square  about  the 
initials. 

"  I  wish  you  would  stop,"  said  a  deep  mel- 
low voice  from  the  heart  of  the  log.  "  I  don't 
want  to  be  scarred  and  hacked  when  I  take 
my  turn  on  the  carriage  before  the  saw.  I 
want  to  be  as  nearly  perfect  as  I  can,  now  I 
am  cut  in  pieces." 

The  boy  pulled  the  knife  from  the  bark 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  27 

quickly,  shut  it  with  a  snap  and  put  it  into 
his  pocket. 

He  had  often  heard  the  trees  and  wild- 
flowers  talk  in  the  deep  woods,  but  never  a 
log,  and  he  wished  to  know  more  of  the 
monster  pine  on  which  he  was  sitting. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  cared,"  he  said  sym- 
pathetically. "  I  thought  you  were  only  a 
log,  and  would  soon  be  sawed  into  boards,  so 
a  few  extra  cuts  would  not  make  any  differ- 
ence." 

"  Only  a  butt-log,"  sighed  the  old  pine,  and 
its  voice  had  a  touch  of  melancholy,  like  the 
soughing  of  wind  in  pine  needles.  "  Only  a 
butt-log!  That  is  what  most  people  think, 
but  I  am  more  than  that.  I  am  a  personality. 
A  memory  beside  which  all  the  other  mem- 
ories in  the  countryside  pale  and  are  as 
nothing,  unless  I  make  an  exception  of  the 
memories  of  the  mountains  and  the  cliffs,  near 
which  I  stood;  of  course  they  are  older  and 
wiser  than  I.  But  I  am  still  a  noble  memory 
and  a  personality  as  mysterious  and  rich  as 
the  odor  of  my  needles  on  a  fresh  summer 


28         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

breeze,  when  the  sun  has  warmed  my  thought 
and  stirred  me  to  speak  of  other  days.  The 
things  that  I  have  seen  would  fill  a  large 
book,  and  the  memories  would  all  be  sweet 
and  wholesome." 

"  I  do  not  see  how  you  could  have  seen  very 
much,"  said  the  boy  skeptically.  "  You  have 
always  been  the  sentinel  pine,  standing  on 
the  brow  of  the  mountain.  My  grandfather 
says  you  stood  there  just  as  you  did  last  year 
when  he  was  a  small  boy.  You  could  not 
stir  from  the  spot.  How  could  you  have  seen 
much? " 

"  I  was  patient  and  observing  and  the 
world  came  to  me,"  replied  the  pine  thought- 
fully. "  I  will  tell  you  my  story  and  then 
you  will  see. 

"  About  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago, 
or  thirty  or  forty  years  after  the  Pilgrims 
landed  at  Plymouth,  a  tiny  white  pine  seed 
parted  company  with  the  cone  that  bore  it 
and  floated  leisurely  down  through  the  balmy 
spring  atmosphere.  It  had  been  two  years  in 
forming  and  was  glad  to  escape  from  its 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  29 

parent  tree  and  venture  into  the  world  on  its 
own  account. 

"  Just  at  the  particular  moment  that  the 
seed  freed  itself  from  the  cone,  there  came  a 
slight  puff  of  wind,  that  influenced  the  after- 
life of  the  seed  greatly,  for  it  wafted  it  forty 
or  fifty  feet  into  the  forest,  and  deposited  it 
in  a  dark  gloomy  hollow. 

"  This  tiny  seed  was  a  very  insignificant 
looking  thing,  seemingly  of  no  more  worth 
than  a  grain  of  sand.  But  here  appearances 
were  most  deceitful,  for  the  seed  held  a  secret 
more  precious  than  all  else  in  the  world,  the 
secret  of  life,  which  with  all  his  inquisitive- 
ness  and  his  genius  for  finding  out  things, 
man  has  never  been  able  to  discover.  If  that 
seed  could  have  told  the  world  what  it  knew 
that  spring  morning,  the  scientist  would  have 
hugged  himself  with  delight. 

"  But  the  little  seed  was  very  modest  and 
unconscious  of  its  importance.  It  lay  there 
in  the  mold  where  the  playful  spring  zephyr 
had  dropped  it,  and  dreamed  while  the 
summer  days  went  by. 


30         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  Sometimes  when  the  day  was  warmer 
than  usual,  and  the  heat  penetrated  to  the 
deep  gloom  of  the  dense  forest,  the  seed  felt 
a  longing  or  a  desire,  for  something,  it  knew 
not  what.  Then  it  seemed  to  the  seed  that 
something  was  calling  to  it  from  above,  but 
the  feeling  soon  passed  and  the  seed  kept  on 
dreaming. 

"  At  other  times  the  seed  was  conscious  of 
.power  within  itself,  a  force  that  made  it  rest- 
less, a  memory  that  was  calling,  a  desire  that 
was  stirring,  a  hope  that  had  not  yet  been 
fulfilled.  Finally  one  warm  summer  morning 
the  seed  thought  it  felt  something  tugging 
at  its  very  inner  self.  Then  it  awoke,  and 
pushed  up  through  the  mold. 

"  It  was  much  brighter  and  more  cheerful 
above  the  mold  and  the  seed  was  glad  that 
it  had  obeyed  the  call,  but  who  it  was  that 
called  it,  the  seed  did  not  at  first  know. 
Finally,  down  through  the  treetops  there  fell 
a  warm  pencil  of  light,  vibrant  and  delicious. 

"  It  touched  the  tiny,  pale  sprouting  seed- 
ling with  its  warmth  and  then  the  seedling 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  31 

knew  that  it  was  its  foster  father,  the  sun, 
who  had  been  calling  all  through  the  summer 
hours.  Henceforth,  its  mother,  the  earth, 
and  its  foster  father,  the  sun,  would  nourish 
and  sustain  it  in  sunshine  and  storm,  in  heat 
and  cold. 

"  Two  years  went  hy  and  there  was  only 
a  tiny  tuft  of  green  to  show  for  the  seven 
hundred  odd  days.  For,  living  as  it  did  in  the 
deep  forest,  under  the  skirts  of  large  trees, 
fifteen  minutes  of  sunlight  a  day  was  all  the 
little  seedling  got,  and  one  cannot  grow  very 
fast  on  such  short  rations.  It  would  have 
liked  to  walk  out  into  the  sunlight  and 
warmth,  but  God  had  placed  it  in  the  gloom, 
so  it  stayed  there  and  lived  its  life  the  best  it 
could. 

"  On  the  little  pine's  fifth  birthday,  one 
could  have  covered  it  with  a  tumbler,  so 
slowly  it  grew. 

"  When  it  was  ten  years  old  a  four  quart 
pail  would  have  screened  it  from  the  world, 
while  on  its  twenty-first  birthday,  when  it 
was  of  age,  a  bushel  basket  would  have  cov- 


32         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

ered  it.  A  white  pine  in  the  open  would  have 
been  much  larger  at  this  age,  but  this  pine 
was  a  victim  of  circumstances,  during  its  sap- 
ling years. 

"  After  this  I  grew  much  faster  than  I 
had  done  before,  for  the  tip  of  my  blue  green 
plumes  now  reached  a  pencil  of  light  for 
which  I  had  been  long  stretching. 

"  So  instead  of  a  scant  fifteen  minutes  of 
sunlight  a  day,  I  now  had  an  hour  of  my 
foster  father's  gracious  smile. 

"How  it  warmed  and  cheered  me!  Be- 
fore, I  had  been  gloomy  and  foreboding,  but 
now  I  became  hopeful  and  cheerful,  and  full 
of  great  longings.  Before,  it  had  seemed  to 
me  that  I  would  never  get  out  of  the  dark- 
ness and  the  damp  mold.  Now,  I  was  sure 
that  some  day  I  would  be  almost  as  tall  as 
the  great  monarch  pine  from  which  I  had 
sprung. 

"  The  first  two  decades  of  my  life  had  been 
spent  almost  entirely  in  the  bosom  of  my 
mother,  the  earth.  Now  I  belonged  partly 
to  the  earth,  and  partly  to  the  sun.  I  could 


A  Tale  froflu  the  Skidway  3  3 

not  but  obey  the  new  impulse  within  me  to 
stretch  up  and  out.  I  had  been  sleeping,  had 
been  a  dullard  and  a  stupid,  and  must  make 
up  for  lost  time. 

"  From  being  almost  afraid  of  my  foster 
father,  the  sun,  I  began  to  love  him,  and  to 
look  for  his  coming,  as  a  child  for  its  parent. 
I  was  lonely  when  he  was  hidden  from  me; 
true,  he  always  sent  his  hand-maiden,  the 
moon,  to  cheer  us  through  the  night,  but  her 
smile  was  not  so  bright  and  inspiring  as  that 
of  the  glorious  sun. 

"  By  the  time  I  was  thirty  years  old,  I 
had  reached  the  height  of  a  man,  and  felt 
every  inch  of  my  hard-gained  height.  The 
rabbit  could  no  longer  jump  over  me  and 
make  me  feel  mean  and  small,  as  he  had  done 
years  before.  He  had  to  run  around  me  now, 
and  I  laughed  at  him  and  felt  glad  for  every 
inch  of  my  height.  The  snows  of  winter  no 
longer  bowed  me  down,  as  they  had  done 
when  I  was  small,  nearly  breaking  my  back, 
and  covering  me  until  I  could  not  see  the 
world.  I  could  now  keep  my  head  above  even 


34         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

a  fair  sized  drift.  But  the  ice  storms  I  still 
feared,  for  they  occasionally  bowed  me  down 
so  that  they  nearly  broke  my  back. 

"  About  this  time,  I  bore  my  first  cone, 
and  if  it  needed  anything  more  to  make  me 
vain,  it  was  this.  My  parent,  the  great  pine 
at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  had  been  rattling 
down  cones  ever  since  I  could  remember,  and 
I  had  never  had  even  a  sign  of  a  cone.  When 
that  first  cone  fell,  I  felt  as  though  I  had 
parted  company  with  the  most  precious  thing 
in  the  world,  but  when  I  found  that  they 
came  every  second  year,  I  was  comforted. 

"  When  I  was  about  forty  years  old,  I  had 
a  narrow  escape  from  destruction.  Up  to 
this  time,  all  the  men  that  I  had  known  had 
been  red  men,  and  I  wish  they  had  been  the 
only  men  the  forest  had  ever  known.  If  they 
had  been,  it  would  not  be  the  sorry  sight  it 
is  now.  These  quiet,  nature-loving  men  came 
and  went  under  the  branches  of  the  forest  as 
silently  as  the  deer  and  the  panther.  They 
seemed  a  part  of  the  woods,  and  we  looked 
for  their  coming  and  going  as  we  did  that  of 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  35 

the  seasons.  But  finally  the  white  man  came. 
He  awoke  the  forest  with  new  and  terrible 
lightning,  before  which  the  deer  and  the 
panther  were  powerless,  and  the  red  man 
melted  away  like  the  snowbanks  in  early 
spring.  But  worst  of  all,  this  white  man 
brought  with  him  an  implement,  keen  and 
bright,  which  he  calls  an  axe.  Ever  since  the 
day  of  his  coming  the  echoes  of  the  axe  have 
resounded  through  the  forest,  and  one  by  one 
my  kind  have  been  laid  low.  As  you  know, 
I  was  the  last  of  the  first  growth  pines  on 
the  mountain  side. 

"  As  I  have  already  said,  when  I  was  about 
forty  years  old,  this  white  man  came  with 
his  axe.  The  first  time  I  saw  him,  he  was 
blazing  a  wood  road  through  the  forest. 

"  He  was  picking  out  a  path  that  should 
be  smooth  in  winter,  and  as  straight  as  he 
could  make  it,  without  too  much  work.  He 
lopped  down  a  sapling  here,  and  a  clump  of 
bushes  there,  and  every  few  feet,  he  stopped 
and  blazed  a  tree.  This  blazed  tree  would 
show  him  the  road  when  the  snow  was  piled 


36         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

so  deep  that  other  landmarks  would  be  oblit- 
erated. He  stopped  close  to  me  and  sighted 
from  one  blazed  tree  to  another.  Would 
I  be  in  the  way?  That  was  the  question.  He 
seemed  to  think  I  would,  for  he  raised  his  axe. 
A  shudder  ran  through  me,  and  I  thought  of 
a  maple  sapling  that  he  had  just  laid  low. 
I  knew  I  never  would  rise  again,  for  I  had 
seen  trees  blown  over  in  a  great  storm  and 
they  never  did. 

"  Then  the  man  lowered  his  axe  and 
stopped  to  consider.  Perhaps  I  would  not 
be  in  the  way  after  all,  or  maybe  the  road 
would  be  too  rough  if  it  went  just  where  I 
stood,  for  he  changed  the  mark  on  the  last 
tree,  blazing  the  opposite  side,  and  went  on, 
and  I  was  allowed  to  stand. 

"  All  through  the  autumn  and  winter  there 
were  strange  foreign  sounds  in  the  forest. 
For  days  at  a  time  there  would  be  the  cease- 
less ring  of  the  axe  and  occasionally  that 
thundering  crash,  that  told  of  one  of  our 
number  laid  low.  Then  when  the  logs  had 
been  cut  and  piled,  teams  came  into  the  woods 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  37 

and  loaded  them  and  they  were  hauled  down 
into  the  valley,  where  they  were  hewed  into 
timber  and  builded  into  rude  cabins.  If  any- 
thing more  was  needed  to  make  me  vain,  it 
came  when  a  pretty  little  pair  of  forest 
warblers  built  the  daintiest  nest,  that  ever 
you  saw,  in  my  boughs. 

"  To  think  that  they  had  chosen  me  instead 
of  some  of  the  taller  trees  for  their  abiding 
place,  filled  me  with  such  pride  that  it  is  a 
wonder  that  I  did  not  crack  my  bark.  All 
through  summer  they  stayed  with  me  going 
and  coming  from  the  nest,  feeding  and  rear- 
ing their  fledglings  and  I  was  the  happiest, 
vainest  little  pine  in  all  the  great  woods. 
When  the  strong  winds  howled  in  the  tree- 
tops,  bending  them  and  sometimes  even 
breaking  off  branches,  I  stood  stiff-backed 
and  resolute,  and  tried  with  all  my  sturdy 
might  not  to  rock  the  little  downhair  lined 
nest  among  my  green  plumes  lest  I  spill  some 
of  the  joy  that  it  contained. 

"  When  at  last  the  fledglings  grew  up  and 
the  whiole  family  deserted  me,  I  felt  as  lone- 


38         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

some  as  a  solitary  tree  out  in  the  open,  but 
I  kept  the  nest  for  a  long  time  as  a  remem- 
brance. 

"  The  second  winter  of  the  lumbering  op- 
erations in  the  forest  where  I  lived,  some- 
thing happened  that  filled  me  with  grief  and 
nearly  wiped  me  off  the  face  of  the  white 
snow-covered  world  as  well.  It  also  set  me 
to  thinking  of  how  uncertain  a  thing  life  is, 
even  for  a  small  insignificant  little  pine. 

"  I  had  often  seen  the  lumberman  casting 
admiring  glances  at  my  sire  the  old  sentinel 
pine,  as  they  passed,  but  their  admiration 
was  the  admiration  of  greed  as  I  soon  dis- 
covered. It  does  not  pay  to  be  too  much 
admired  in  a  covetous  world  like  this.  One 
day,  one  of  the  choppers  came  and  began 
hacking  away  at  the  old  pine,  under  whose 
protecting  arm  I  had  been  reared.  How 
grand  he  looked,  and  how  small  and  insig- 
nificant these  two  puny  wood-cutters!  But 
how  untiring  they  plied  their  axes,  and  what 
deep  cuts  those  sharp  blades  made  when  they 
fell!  I  saw  the  white  chips  fly  out  on  the 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  39 

snow  and  wondered  if  it  hurt  my  sire  to  have 
his  sap  chipped  out  like  that.  At  first  I 
thought  he  would  be  able  to  withstand  them, 
I  had  seen  him  battle  successfully  with  the 
hurricane  so  many  times,  but  I  soon  saw  that 
he  was  doomed,  and  a  deep  sense  of  loneliness 
came  over  me,  even  before  I  saw  him  laid 
low. 

"  Finally  I  saw  the  two  choppers  looking 
up  at  the  dark  blue  tip-top  plumes  of  the  giant 
tree,  which  were  sharply  silhouetted  against 
the  sky.  Already  the  giant  tree  had  begun  to 
totter  and  waver,  like  an  old  man  who  leans 
upon  his  staff.  First  he  swayed  a  bit  one 
way,  and  then  the  other,  and  finally,  with  a 
great  rush  of  wind  that  was  like  the  roar  of 
a  mighty  tempest,  and  a  cloud  of  snow  that 
was  thrown  up  as  it  struck,  the  noble  pine 
lay  upon  the  breast  of  its  mother  earth,  never 
to  rise  again. 

"  My  sire  had  fallen  within  ten  feet  of  me, 
and,  had  I  been  struck,  I  should  have  been 
broken  to  bits. 

"  Once,  while  they  were  limbing  out  the 


40         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

great  pine,  one  of  the%  choppers  said  he  would 
cut  me  down,  as  I  was  right  in  the  way.  I 
did  not  care  much  if  he  did,  the  fall  of  my 
sire  had  so  saddened  me,  but  the  other 
chopper  told  him  to  notice  how  tall  and 
straight  I  was,  and  how  symmetrical.  '  Some 
day  that  will  be  as  fine  a  tree  as  this,'  he  said, 
so  I  was  allowed  to  stand. 

"  When  the  great  pine  had  been  cut  into 
logs  and  drawn  away,  there  was  a  broad  gap 
in  the  woods  where  it  had  stood.  I  now  got 
a  full  blaze  of  sunlight  and  all  the  winds  that 
had  formerly  buffeted  the  sentinel.  The  sun 
made  me  grow  rapidly,  and  perhaps  even  the 
winds  which  I  at  first  thought  very  cold  and 
boisterous  helped  to  develop  me.  At  least 
they  taught  me  to  strike  my  roots  deep  in  the 
earth  and  hold  on  with  might  and  main. 

"  Fifty  more  years  went  by,  and  I  stood 
at  the  edge  of  the  forest  where  my  sire  had 
stood  and  took  the  buffets  of  the  wind,  and 
the  smile  of  my  foster  father,  the  sun,  and 
was  glad,  after  the  manner  of  a  pine.  Glad 
for  the  sunlight  and  the  cold,  the  rain  and 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  41 

the  dew;  glad  for  the  rich  mold  in  which  I 
stood,  and  for  the  blue  sky  above  me. 

"  I  could  never  tell  you  all  my  thoughts 
as  I  stood  there,  while  spring  and  summer, 
autumn  and  winter,  went  by.  Sometimes 
when  the  sun  warmed  my  needles,  a  rich  aro- 
matic odor,  full  of  sweet  memories,  the  mem- 
ories and  longings  of  a  pine,  would  float  out 
on  the  merry  breeze. 

"  I  saw  the  beech  and  the  maple  put  forth 
their  first  tiny  buds  and  open  their  myriad 
leaves  in  the  springtime,  and  I  saw  them 
stripped  of  all  their  glory  in  the  autumn  to 
make  a  carpet  for  the  forest.  They  were 
changeable,  sometimes  gay  and  glorious  in 
green  or  scarlet  robes,  but  I  was  always  the 
same.  I  never  changed  my  deep  blue  green 
mantle,  and  to  the  nature  lover  I  was  always 
the  dark,  restful  pine,  perhaps  sad,  but  I 
merely  reflected  the  life  about  me,  or  maybe 
my  melancholy  was  tinged  by  that  of  the 
wind,  which  was  always  moaning  and  sighing 
in  my  needles. 

"  Who  shall  guess  my  thoughts  on  lonely 


42         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

winter  nights,  as  I  stood  guard  at  the  edge 
of  the  forest,  when  the  Pleiades  was  so  cold 
and  glittering  that  it  seemed  like  a  panoply 
of  spear  points,  and  the  six  points  of  the  Great 
Bear  might  have  been  six  icicles?  Who  shall 
guess  what  things  I  saw  when  the  prowling 
fox  barked  in  the  cavernous  aisles  of  the  snow- 
bound forest,  while  the  weird  hooting  of  an 
arctic  owl  woke  mysterious  echoes  in  the 
woods?  Who  but  I  knows  just  how  the 
rabbits  play  tag  of  a  winter's  night,  when  the 
moon  is  at  her  full,  and  the  crust  glints  and 
glistens  like  a  pavement  of  diamonds? 

"  Was  I  lonely  as  I  stood  there,  druid-like 
and  hoary,  with  my  coverlet  of  snow  and  ice, 
forsaken  by  the  birds  and  squirrels,  and  by 
even  the  little  wood-mouse  that  dwelt  beneath 
my  roots? 

"  Did  I  long  for  a  sigh  of  the  south  wind, 
and  a  whisper  from  the  sleeping  hepatica,  and 
arbutus;  did  I  yearn  for  the  coming  of 
spring? 

"  Ah,  who  shall  say?  These  are  the  in- 
scrutable secrets  of  nature,  that  man  with  all 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  43 

his  inquisitiveness  cannot  find  out.  Men  may 
hew  and  hack  me,  may  saw  and  burn  me,  may 
grind  me  into  pulp  and  make  paper  of  me, 
but  they  will  never  tear  this  secret  from  my 
breast. 

"  Yon  saw  that  howls  like  a  demon  and 
whose  bright  teeth  are  hungry  for  my  heart 
will  make  man  no  wiser.  The  secret  is  na- 
ture's own,  and  she  guards  it  well. 

"  If  you  will  count  the  rings  upon  my  cross- 
section  from  one  hundred  and  five  to  one 
hundred  and  nine,  you  will  find  that  they 
come  very  close  together.  In  fact  they  al- 
most coincide,  and  only  the  very  best  eyesight 
can  discern  them.  This,  too,  tells  a  bit  of  my 
history.  These  contracted  rings  represent 
three  very  cold  summers  and  winters,  due  to 
a  season  of  spots  upon  the  sun.  During  these 
cold  years  the  plants  and  trees  grew  very  lit- 
tle, and  even  what  they  did  grow  in  the  sum- 
mer was  contracted  and  dwarfed  in  the 
winter. 

"  How  ghastly  and  sickly  my  foster  father, 
the  sun,  looked  for  these  three  years.  How 


44         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

feeble  and  unsatisfying  his  smile,  that  had 
usually  been  so  warm  and  loving. 

"  He  was  not  like  himself  at  all,  and  it  was 
a  great  relief  to  me  when  he  was  again  bright 
and  cheerful. 

"  It  was  the  wind  that  finally  humbled  my 
pride  and  made  me  bow  my  haughty  head.  I 
had  long  thought  I  was  the  strongest  thing 
in  the  world  and  I  had  no  fear  of  wind  or 
storm.  Once  I  had  been  struck  by  lightning 
and  I  still  bear  the  scar,  one  hundred  and 
forty  rings  back  from  my  bark,  but  I  soon 
recovered  from  that. 

"  But  the  wind,  that  went  mad,  and  tore 
at  the  heart  of  the  forest  taught  me  the  great- 
est lesson  I  ever  learned  and  that  was  the 
lesson  of  humility.  Then  I  understood  that 
no  matter  how  strong  one  may  think  himself 
there  is  always  something  stronger,  that  will 
some  day  humble  him. 

"  One  afternoon  early  in  August}  when  I 
was  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  old,  the  sky 
grew  suddenly  green  and  a  strange  calm  was 
over  everything. 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  45 

"  Now  for  the  earth  to  look  green  was  all 
right,  but  for  the  sky  to  assume  a  strange 
copper  colored  green  was  all  wrong,  so  the 
trees  began  stirring  their  leaves  restlessly, 
although  there  was  no  wind,  and  one  could 
not  have  discovered  how  it  was  done. 

"  Then  a  green  and  yellow  funnel,  edged 
with  pink  and  saffron,  and  fringed  with  black 
was  seen  trailing  along  the  earth.  When  it 
drew  nearer  it  was  seen  that  there  was  a 
mighty  commotion  at  the  lower  end  of  this 
funnel,  where  there  was  a  churning  and  roll- 
ing and  tumbling,  with  quick  flashes  of  light- 
ning, and  fringes  of  cloud  that  looked  like 
rain  or  mist. 

"  The  nearer  the  funnel-shaped  cloud  drew 
to  the  forest  the  more  incessant  became  the 
churning  and  roaring  and  the  brighter  the 
lightning.  The  birds  and  the  squirrels  scur- 
ried to  their  hiding-places,  and  the  two  great 
fish-hawks  that  had  built  their  nest  in  my 
branches  that  spring,  flew  screaming  home. 

"  On  came  this  great  seething,  maddened 
funnel  of  wind  and  lightning,  rain  and  hail, 


46         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

filled  with  clouds  of  dust  and  sticks.  As  it 
drew  nearer,  trees  and  all  kinds  of  debris 
were  seen  rolling  and  tumbling,  grinding  and 
breaking. 

"  When  the  cloud  storm  dipped  down  to 
the  forest,  great  trees  bent  and  broke  or  were 
blown  over  and  uprooted.  Giants  that  had 
withstood  the  tempests  of  centuries,  went  over 
like  ninepins,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  was  afraid. 

"  At  first  when  it  struck  me,  I  stood  up 
proudly.  I  had  never  before  bowed  my  head, 
and  why  should  I  now?  But  it  only  took  a 
very  few  seconds  for  me  to  see  the  folly  of 
such  a  course.  So  I  bent  and  swayed, 
thrashed  and  writhed,  and  so  far  as  I  could, 
obeyed  the  cyclone.  It  stripped  me  of  many 
of  my  branches  and  bent  me  down  until  my 
back  was  ready  to  break.  Then  with  a  roar 
like  continuous  thunder,  and  a  constant  play 
of  lightning,  with  a  torrent  of  hail  and  rain, 
and  a  blinding  cloud  of  dust  and  debris  of 
every  kind,  the  cyclone  sucked  half  of  my 
blue  green  plumes  of  which  I  was  so  proud 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  47 

into  the  whirling,  seething  vortex,  and  swept 
on,  leaving  me  writhing,  twisting,  and  groan- 
ing, torn,  bent  and  bleeding  with  my  bark 
hanging  in  long  white  shreds. 

"  How  humiliated  and  crushed  I  felt  as  I 
tried  to  straighten  my  half  broken  back  and 
untangle  my  split  and  broken  limbs,  from 
which  many  of  the  green  plumes  had  been 
blown.  I  had  been  so  proud  but  a  few  min- 
utes before !  Sure  of  my  own  great  strength 
and  thinking  that  nothing  could  make  me 
bow  my  haughty  head. 

"  That  evening  when  the  stars  appeared 
and  the  soft  night  winds  sighed  in  my  torn 
plumes,  the  pale  moon  beheld  not  the  haughty 
old  sentinel  pine,  but  an  humble  tree,  most 
of  whose  symmetry  and  beauty  had  departed. 

"  But  time  heals  all  such  wounds  as  these, 
and  as  the  summers  and  winters  came  and 
went,  the  green  plumes  were  again  luxuriant 
upon  my  branches  and  new  limbs  appeared, 
or  the  old  ones  spread  and  branched,  to  cover 
up  my  fine  trunk,  and  again  I  was  sym- 
metrical and  beautiful  as  only  a  tree  can  be. 


48         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  After  this  my.  life  went  on  peacefully 
and  uneventfully  for  fifty  years  more.  Men 
came  and  went  in  the  valley  below,  crawling 
slowly  like  worms  and  from  my  great  height 
they  seemed  like  ants.  They  built  their  little 
block  houses,  and  in  them  lived  their  lives  of 
joy  and  sorrow,  while  I  stood  guard  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill.  Occasionally  men  came  into 
the  woods  and  hacked  and  scarred  the  ancient 
forest,  but  I  went  unscathed. 

"  The  red  man  no  longer  camped  under 
my  friendly  boughs  and  the  deer  and  the  bear, 
and  the  tall  moose  had  disappeared  from  the 
forest.  But  I  still  had  the  birds  and  squirrels 
and  all  the  small  creatures  whose  pitter-patter 
in  the  leaves  I  knew  so  well. 

"  The  jay  and  the  crow  nested  in  my 
branches  and  the  red  squirrel  could  make  a 
fair  meal  upon  my  cones  when  he  was  hungry. 
But  the  fish-hawks,  who  had  builded  in  my 
branches  before  the  great  storm,  were  gone. 
Their  nests  have  been  blown  to  bits,  and  one 
of  the  great  birds  killed  in  the  cyclone. 

"  Many  a  little  forest  warbler  also  found 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  49 

how  good  a  resting  place  were  my  branches. 
So  their  love  notes  mingled  in  the  springtime 
with  the  soft  soughing  of  the  wind  in  my 
needles. 

"  When  I  was  about  two  hundred  years 
old  there  came  such  a  summer  as  I  hope  will 
never  visit  the  earth  again.  Day  after  day 
the  sun  rose  into  a  cloudless  sky  and  set  in  a 
sea  of  brass.  No  soft  white  cloud  cheered  the 
parched  earth  with  promise  of  rain.  No  dew 
fell  at  eventide  and  no  rain  fell  for  weeks  and 
months.  The  old  mill  pond  in  the  valley 
shrank  to  a  mere  pool,  and  the  river  that  fed 
it  nearly  went  dry. 

"  Springs  that  had  not  failed  in  the  mem- 
ory of  man  dried  up,  grass  and  shrubs  were 
burned  to  a  crisp,  and  dust  and  a  terrible 
thirst  was  over  all  the  land.  The  beasts  of 
the  field  and  the  fowls  of  the  air  seemed  ill  at 
ease.  Cattle  roamed  restlessly  to  and  fro, 
lowing  and  impatient.  The  great  bald  eagle 
that  had  made  its  nest  in  my  top  for  several 
years  circled  about  the  mountain  top  scream- 
ing when  there  was  nothing  to  enrage  it. 


50         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

Birds  twittered  uneasily  and  uttered  their 
cries  of  alarm  when  there  was  seemingly  noth- 
ing to  alarm  them.  Some  of  the  wild  crea- 
tures even  seemed  to  go  mad  because  of  the 
great  thirst  that  had  fallen  upon  the  earth, 
and  went  snapping  and  snarling  at  their  fel- 
lows. All  living  things  seemed  out  of  joint 
and  well  they  might. 

"  One  evening  just  at  dusk  there  appeared 
a  dull  red  glow  that  grew  rapidly  in  intensity 
as  the  night  wore  on.  Later  on  in  the  night  it 
filled  the  sky  with  a  cloud  that  obscured  the 
stars  and  made  the  moon  look  like  a  sickly 
streak  of  yellow  light. 

"  The  next  morning  the  sun  rose  in  a  blood 
red  sky,  and  there  was  great  activity  among 
the  creeping,  crawling  men  down  in  the  valley. 
Teams  were  set  to  work  ploughing  broad  fur- 
rows about  the  home  lots  and  preparing  in 
other  ways  to  keep  their  homes  from  the  red 
demon  that  now  mastered  the  eastern  horizon. 

"  Great  clouds  of  smoke  rolled  heaven- 
ward, obscuring  the  sun  and  casting  a  strange 
unearthly  light  over  all. 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  5 1 

"  All  things  that  could,  fled  before  the  on- 
coming demon.  The  buck  and  the  doe  gal- 
loped by  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

"  The  nimble  red  fox,  belly  to  earth,  fol- 
lowed close  behind  them.  In  their  wake  ran 
a  score  of  cottontails  and  gray  rabbits,  while 
the  skunk  and  the  woodchuck  lumbered 
clumsily  after  them.  Even  the  turtle  brought 
up  the  rear,  running  a  desperate  race  to  the 
old  mill  pond. 

"  Great  flocks  of  birds,  squawking  and  call- 
ing whirred  by.  All  were  fleeing  to  a  place 
of  safety. 

"  But  not  so  the  sentinel  pine.  My  roots 
were  planted  deep  in  the  soil  of  the  hillside, 
and  hooked  tightly  about  the  solid  rocks.  I 
was  anchored  and  immovable,  like  the  eternal 
hills.  No  matter  how  hot  the  air  grew,  or 
how  dense  with  smoke,  I  must  stay  at  my 
post  like  a  good  soldier  and  stand  or  fall  as 
fate  willed  it. 

"  On  came  the  red  monster,  licking  up  the 
grass  and  the  ferns,  the  underbrush  and  the 
tall  trees  of  the  forest,  with  ten  thousand  red 


52         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

tongues.  Its  roar  was  like  the  roar  of  the 
cyclone,  and  there  were  undertones  and  over- 
tones, hissing  and  snapping,  sputtering  and 
cracking. 

"  The  earth  was  so  parched  that  the  flames 
ran  in  the  grass  almost  as  fast  as  the  deer  and 
the  foxes,  while  the  main  fire  leaped  from 
treetop  to  treetop  over  gaps  of  fifty  feet. 

"  Whenever  it  came  to  a  tall  pine  that  was 
dry  as  tinder  it  leaped  up  as  though  it  had 
caught  in  a  powder  mill  and  the  flames  shot 
heavenward  two  or  three  hundred  feet.  One 
by  one  I  saw  my  tall  neighbors  wrapped  in 
flames  and  I  knew  that  my  fate  was  sealed. 

"  Despair  clutched  me  and  I  shivered  like 
a  human  thing  at  the  thought  of  what  a  gigan- 
tic funeral  torch  I  would  make.  Then  a 
rumble  of  distant  thunder  and  a  strong  puff 
of  west  wind  sent  a  thrill  of  hope  through  me. 
The  rumble  was  followed  by  another  and  yet 
another,  and  then  a  peal  of  thunder  woke  the 
hillside.  On  came  the  flames  vying  with  the 
thunder  that  now  rolled  incessantly.  The 
flames  in  the  underbrush  reached  my  trunk 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  53 

and  began  burning  swiftly  up.  There  was 
sixty  good  feet  to  climb,  before  my  branches 
were  reached,  but  I  knew  if  once  my  top  was 
kindled  nothing  could  save  me.  Deeply  the 
flames  burned  into  my  side,  making  a  scar 
that  I  still  carry,  while  the  thunders  rolled 
and  the  skies  piled  up  angry  clouds. 

"  The  mighty  sheets  of  flame  that  leaped 
from  treetop  to  treetop,  were  only  a  furlong 
away  when  the  flood  gates  of  heaven  were 
opened  and  I  was  saved  from  a  terrible 
doom. 

"  Then  how  the  rain  fell,  drenching  the 
parched  earth  with  great  sheets  of  water  that 
the  dust  drank  up  almost  before  it  touched 
the  earth.  In  five  minutes  the  flames  that  had 
scorched  my  side  for  fifteen  or  twenty  feet 
were  out,  and  torrents  of  water  were  running 
in  all  the  little  gullies  and  every  blade  of  grass 
was  rejoicing  in  a  language  all  its  own. 

"  Baffled  and  subdued  the  flames  hissed  and 
sputtered,  roared  and  cracked,  but  their  fury 
was  checked  and  they  finally  died  out,  leaving 
a  long  black  waste  behind  them. 


54         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  This  was  the  last  great  tragic  event  in  my 
life,  that  is,  until  I  was  laid  low,  just  as  my 
sire  had  been.  For  fifty  years  more  after  the 
great  forest  fire,  I  lived  the  quiet,  peaceful 
life  of  a  sentinel  pine,  spreading  my  plumes 
to  heaven  and  adorning  the  brow  of  the  moun- 
tain. Grand  and  majestic,  a  thing  of  wonder 
and  beauty,  a  living,  breathing  spire  of  deep 
blue  green,  a  landmark  for  the  weary  traveler 
for  miles  around. 

"  One  crisp  December  morning  when  I  was 
something  over  two  hundred  and  fifty  years 
old,  two  men  came  and  stood  by  me  and 
talked  and  their  conversation  concerned  me. 

"  One  was  the  grave  old  gentleman  upon 
whose  land  I  stood  and  who  owned  me,  the 
other  was  a  lumber  merchant. 

"  *  It's  a  noble  old  tree/  said  my  owner, 
passing  his  hand  caressingly  over  my  bark. 
'  It  has  stood  here  as  the  sentinel  pine,  looking 
just  as  it  does  now,  ever  since  I  can  remember. 
In  fact,  when  I  was  a  boy  it  looked  taller 
than  it  does  now,  but  I  suppose  that  was  just 
my  boyish  fancy.  It  must  be  one  hundred 


A  Tale  from  the  Skidway  55 

and  twenty-five  feet  tall,  and  sixty  feet  up  to 
the  first  limb. 

"  '  My  great-grandfather  said  he  could  re- 
member when  it  was  much  smaller,  and  his 
great-grandfather  remembered  when  it  was 
not  much  taller  than  a  man.  It  seems  like 
sacrilege  to  sell  such  a  tree/ 

"  '  Pooh,'  said  the  lumber  merchant.  '  If  it 
stays  here  it  will  some  day  fall  to  earth  of 
old  age  and  then  it  will  do  no  one  any  good. 
What  is  your  price  for  the  tree? ' 

"  '  One  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,'  said  my 
owner,  '  and  I  would  not  sell  it  at  that  price 
if  I  didn't  need  the  money.  This  pine  is  the 
most  majestic  and  beautiful  thing  on  the  farm 
and  I  feel  as  though  I  was  selling  my  own 
great-great-grandfather.' 

"  The  lumber  merchant  looked  up  at  my 
straight  symmetrical  bowl  and  measured  me 
with  his  eye.  To  his  matter-of-fact  vision  I 
was  just  so  many  thousand  feet  of  sawed 
lumber.  It  was  plain  to  see  that  I  pleased 
him,  for  he  rubbed  his  hands  together  in  a 
satisfied  way  and  said,  *  I'll  take  it.' 


56         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  The  next  morning  two  wood-choppers 
came  with  axes  and  saws  and  I  said  good-bye 
to  the  forest  and  my  native  mountain,  for  my 
hour  had  come. 

"  Each  time  the  bright  blade  of  the  axe 
sank  into  my  flesh,  there  was  a  nipping,  biting 
pain.  Soon  I  felt  a  numbness  creeping  up 
the  side  upon  which  they  were  cutting.  This 
numbness  which  was  like  a  strange  sleep  crept 
to  my  first  limbs,  and  then  to  my  very  tip-top 
plume. 

"  When  they  had  cut  in  part  way,  in  one 
side,  they  began  on  the  other  and  soon  that  side 
too  was  numb.  Gradually,  like  one  who  is 
heavy  with  sleep,  the  numbness  enfolded  me, 
then  the  white  snow-capped  hills  and  valleys 
faded  from  my  sight.  The  sound  of  the  wind 
died  in  the  treetops  and  I  began  to  waver, 
like  an  old  man  upon  his  staff. 

"  Then  a  few  more  keen  axe  strokes  severed 
my  heart,  and  with  a  rush  and  a  roar  that 
shook  the  mountain  side,  I  fell  and  was  no 
longer  a  tree,  but  several  thousand  feet  of 
unsawed  timber." 


A  Tale  from  the  Skid  way  57 

"  What  a  pity  that  you  are  dead,"  said  the 
boy  sympathetically. 

"  I  am  not  exactly  dead,"  said  the  old  butt- 
log,  in  its  deep  rich  voice,  "  but  I  am  wonder- 
fully changed.  Nothing  is  quite  dead  until  it 
disintegrates,  and  falls  to  dust. 

"  I  still  have  great  possibilities  ahead.  I 
am  too  valuable  for  men  to  allow  me  to  pass 
out  of  existence  like  a  useless  thing. 

"  Who  can  say  just  what  my  future  life 
will  be?  I  am  quite  curious  about  it  myself. 
True,  yonder  howling  saw  will  work  havoc 
with  me  as  a  butt-log,  but  I  shall  be  some- 
thing else  when  I  am  sawed. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  travel.  Maybe  I  shall 
be  the  finishing  stuff  of  a  great  ocean  liner. 
Then  will  I  ride  the  billowing  deep  and 
my  fiber  will  sing  the  ancient  song  of 
the  sea,  where  the  wind  howls  in  the  rig- 
ging just  as  it  does  in  the  treetops  of  the 
forest. 

"  Perhaps  as  the  floor  stuff  of  a  parlor  car 
I  shall  travel  from  seaboard  to  seaboard,  vi- 
brating and  thrilling  to  the  song  of  thunder- 


58         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

ing  car  wheels  and  listening  all  day  to  the 
click  of  steel  rails. 

"  Maybe  in  the  nursery  little  feet  shall 
patter  over  me  and  baby  tongues  shall  prattle 
above  me. 

"  Or,  if  a  higher  destiny  should  happen  to 
be  mine,  I  might  be  the  sounding  board  in  a 
piano,  that  the  master  musician  shall  play. 
Then  again  would  I  vibrate  with  the  joy  of 
spring  and  the  flush  of  summer.  Or  still 
better,  the  violin  maker  may  find  a  piece  of 
wood  hundreds  of  years  hence,  that  was  once 
taken  from  my  fiber.  He  may  fashion  a 
wonderful  instrument  from  it.  Then  indeed 
would  I  again  hear  the  wind  in  the  pine 
needles  and  the  melancholy  dirge  of  autumn. 

"  So  you  see  I  am  not  dead,  but  changed 
when  I  am  sawed  up  into  boards." 

"We  want  that  log,  sonny,"  said  the 
sawyer,  who  had  trundled  out  the  car  so 
quietly  that  the  dreamer  on  the  log  had  not 
heard  him. 

The  boy  scrambled  down  from  his  perch 
and  watched  the  men  roll  the  great  log  on  to 


A  Tale  from  the  Skid  way  59 

the  car  and  trundle  it  into  the  mill.  When 
it  had  been  put  into  place,  he  took  his  position 
on  the  car  beside  the  log  and  rode  back  and 
forth  while  the  old  log  was  being  sawed. 

When  the  saw  was  not  in  motion  it  was  a 
great  silver  disk,  ragged  as  hooked  and  gleam- 
ing teeth  could  make  it,  but  when  it  was  in 
motion  it  was  a  misty  blurr  round  as  a  cart- 
wheel and  without  a  sign  of  a  tooth  upon  it. 

When  the  carriage  moved  forward  and  it 
struck  the  butt-log  of  the  ancient  pine,  it 
howled  in  demoniacal  glee  and  whenever  it 
struck  a  knot  it  fairly  shrieked. 

One  by  one  the  white  fresh  boards  were 
sawed  from  the  great  log,  until  one  was 
reached  that  arrested  the  attention  of  the  men 
at  the  saw. 

In  the  middle  of  this  board  was  a  panel 
where  the  wood  was  worn  away  and  polished 
as  white  as  bone  and  quite  as  hard. 

"Look  at  that,  Jim,"  said  the  sawyer  to 
his  helper.  "  Pretty  bad  scar,  ain't  it?  What 
you  guess  did  it? " 

"  Fire,"  said  the  small  boy  on  the  carriage, 


60         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

who  was  watching  eyery  board  taken  from  the 
old  log. 

"  That  is  right,"  said  the  sawyer,  "  it  was 
a  forest  fire.  Must  have  happened  more  than 
fifty  years  ago,  but  how  did  the  kid  know? " 

The  boy  blushed  and  looked  ashamed,  but 
said  nothing  and  the  sawing  went  on. 

When  the  mammoth  log  had  been  sawed 
and  placed  upon  another  car  to  be  run  into 
the  yard  and  stacked,  the  sawyer  said,  "  Six- 
teen hundred  feet  in  one  butt-log.  Well,  that 
breaks  the  record! " 

"  Gracious,  sonny,"  he  exclaimed,  when  he 
had  finished  figuring,  "  seems  to  me  you'll  be 
late  to  school.  Bell  must  have  rung  half  an 
hour  ago." 

"  That's  so,"  said  the  boy,  catching  up  his 
dinner  pail  and  starting  down  the  gangplank 
on  a  run.  "  I  was  so  interested  in  the  old 
log  I  forgot,"  but  all  the  rest  of  the  way  to 
school  he  marvelled  at  the  beauty  and  mystery 
of  the  old  pine's  story  and  was  deeply  grate- 
ful that  he  had  eyes  to  see  and  a  heart  to 
understand  these  things. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  STORY  OF  WILLOW  BROOK 


CHAPTER  II 

The  Story  of  Willow  Brook 

THE  boy  with  a  dinner  pail  sat  on  the  end 
of  a  little  rustic  bridge,  dangling  his  bare  feet 
over  the  cool  water  and  listening  to  the  pleas- 
ant murmur  of  the  stream. 

Above,  and  about  him  was  a  canopy  of 
willow  and  alder  bushes,  and  beneath  was  a 
deep  trout-haunted  pool.  An  occasional  sun- 
beam pierced  the  green  coverlet  of  alder  and 
willow  and  fell  upon  the  rippling,  dimpling 
water.  Where  it  slanted  down  through  the 
green  it  was  a  pencil  of  gold,  but  where  it 
touched  the  water  it  broke  into  many  rainbow 
hues. 

A  dragon  fly  with  jewelled  eyes  and  iri- 
descent wings  hummed  viciously  through, 
under  the  bridge,  causing  the  boy  to  draw  up 


64         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

his  feet  quickly.  He  had  a  horror  of  dragon 
flies,  because  he  shared  with  other  small  boys 
that  queer  superstition,  about  the  dragon  fly 
sewing  up  the  ears  of  those  who  angered  him. 
The  boy  was  of  course  quite  sure  the  bright 
colored  insect  did  not  really  possess  that 
power,  but  there  was  just  enough  mystery 
about  the  legend  to  make  it  awesome. 

A  wood  thrush  perched  in  the  alders  al- 
most within  hand's  reach,  and  poured  forth 
a  wonderful  song.  Further  down  the  stream 
a  catbird  mimicked  the  song  exactly  and  then 
squawled  derisively. 

As  the  boy  sat  upon  the  bridge  leaning 
against  the  post  at  one  end,  his  cap  on  the 
planks  beside  him,  with  the  sweet  smell  of 
fern  and  flag  and  pungent  willow  in  his  nos- 
trils, the  spirit  of  the  waters  touched  his  ears 
with  a  magic  reed,  and  he  heard  new  tones 
in  the  song  of  the  stream  and  at  last  under- 
stood its  gurgling  and  prattling  as  he  had 
never  done  before. 

At  first  he  understood  only  a  part  of  what 
the  rivulet  was  saying,  but  finally  his  heart 


The  Story  of  Willow  Brook         65 

was  opened  and  the  language  of  the  waters 
was  made  plain. 

"I  am  willow  brook,"  the  little  stream  be- 
gan, "  and  I  am  older  than  you  can  possibly 
imagine.  Many  a  stream  goes  dry  and  is  lost 
because  the  timber  is  cut  off  near  its  source, 
or  the  land  is  drained,  but  very  few  new 
streams  are  formed.  So  the  streams  are  older 
than  anything  made  by  man,  older  than  the 
oldest  trees  that  have  stood  for  centuries,  and 
almost  as  old  as  the  wrinkled  hills. 

"  If  you  would  get  some  idea  of  how  old 
I  am  just  follow  me  back  by  a  score  of 
bridges,  and  as  many  meadows,  by  half  a 
dozen  mill  ponds  and  as  many  water  wheels, 
through  deep  forests  and  over  jagged  cliffs, 
to  the  place  of  my  beginning,  which  is  far  up 
on  the  mountain  side. 

"  There  you  will  find  a  seam  in  the  solid 
rock  from  which  gush  the  living  waters.  A 
foot  or  two  below  is  a  basin  holding  several 
gallons  of  water. 

"  At  the  time  when  some  upheaval,  or  per- 
haps it  was  the  frost,  broke  the  rock  open, 


66         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

and  I  gushed  forth,  there  was  no  basin  to 
hold  my  pure  stream.  I  made  the  basin  with 
my  own  gentle  lapping.  If  you  were  to  pour 
water  upon  a  rock  for  your  entire  lifetime 
you  probably  could  not  see  that  you  had  worn 
away  the  rock;  but  I  with  my  constant  drip- 
ping have  made  this  deep  broad  basin.  I  do 
not  measure  time  in  years  and  so  do  not  know 
how  long  ago  the  rock  opened  and  I  began 
work  upon  the  basin,,  but  many  times  the 
forest  about  me  has  fallen  beneath  the  tooth 
of  time  while  I  worked  away  at  my  task. 
Long,  long  before  the  white  man  ever  set  foot 
upon  this  continent  the  red  man  used  to  come 
to  my  basin  to  drink. 

"  In  those  days  I  was  called  the  *  fount  of 
healing.'  There  were  many  substances  in  the 
rock  from  which  I  sprung  that  had  medicinal 
qualities,  such  as  sulphur  and  iron,  which 
purify  and  renew  the  blood.  Some  of  these 
qualities  I  have  lost,  as  the  iron  and  the  sul- 
phur are  nearly  all  washed  from  the  rock,  but 
I  am  still  the  living  water  full  of  sweet,  heal- 
ing qualities. 


The  Story  of  Willow  Brook         67 

"  In  those  old  days  when  the  ancient  forest 
was  unbroken,  and  primeval  wilderness  and 
grandeur  was  about  me,  the  doe  led  her  little 
dapple  fawn  to  the  bank  and  drank  of  me. 
The  woodcock  and  the  jacksnipe  reared  their 
young  upon  my  bank,  and  bored  for  worms 
in  the  loam  that  I  cast  up.  The  wood  duck 
led  forth  her  fledglings  to  my  bosom,  and  was 
not  afraid. 

"  Often  the  red  man  came  to  my  deep  pools 
for  fish  and  I  gave  him  plenty,  for  then  the 
streams  swarmed  with  fish.  In  those  sweet 
old  days  I  was  wild  and  free,  for  I  had  not 
been  dammed  and  harnessed  to  do  the  work 
of  men. 

"  How  well  I  remember  the  first  dam  that 
checked  my  course  and  how  I  have  worked 
ever  since  at  that  mill.  One  day  the  new, 
pale  faced  man  who  was  a  stranger  in  the 
great  woods  came  to  my  banks  and  began 
felling  trees  at  the  lower  end  of  a  little  valley 
and  almost  before  I  had  guessed  their  design 
they  had  entirely  checked  my  course.  How 
angry  I  was  to  be  stopped  in  this  way.  I 


68         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

knew  that  many  pools  and  waterfalls  below 
would  dry  up  if  I  tarried,  but  work  away  as 
I  would,  I  could  find  no  escape  through  this 
wall  that  men  had  placed  in  my  way. 

"  At  first  I  sought  to  go  under  the  dam,  or 
through  some  of  the  many  small  cracks  that 
had  been  left  in  the  structure.  But  there  was 
no  passage  under  the  strong  dam,  and  the 
holes  were  soon  filled  with  wash  from  the 
stream  and  I  was  left  fretting  in  confine- 
ment. 

"  Then  I  sought  to  go  round  the  ends  of 
the  dam,  but  man  had  builded  it  long  and 
strong  and  as  it  is  one  of  the  laws  of  my  being 
that  I  cannot  flow  uphill,  I  soon  found  that  I 
could  not  go  round,  so  I  waited,  making  a 
broad  deep  pool,  abiding  my  time.  If  I  was 
not  strong  enough  to  cope  with  this  artifice 
now  I  might  be  later  on.  But  the  surface  of 
the  pond  near  the  dam  was  covered  with  froth 
for  I  foamed  and  fretted  at  being  held. 

"  I  had  never  before  been  checked  so  effect- 
ively. Once  the  beaver  had  dammed  my 
course,  but  had  finally  concluded  that  my 


The  Story  of  Willow  Brook         69 

current  was  too  swift  and  had  sought  another 
stream. 

"  Finally  after  about  u  week,  I  had  filled 
the  dam  full  to  the  top  and  I  knew  that  my 
liberty  was  near  ^t  har/d.  So  one  morning 
without  as  much  as  saying,  by  your  leave,  I 
tumbled  over  the  dam  with  a  great  roar,  and 
went  laughing  on  my  way. 

"  How  glad  the  pools  and  the  meadows 
below  were  to  see  me.  They  had  thought  I 
had  lost  my  way,  and  were  nearly  dried  up 
with  grief.  The  meadows  had  lost  their 
greenness  and  freshness,  and  many  of  the 
shallow  pools  wer£  nearly  dry.  The  fish  had 
fared  hard,  and  some  of  my  choice  clumps  of 
lily-pads  were  dead.  But  everything  took  on 
a  new  beauty  when  I  appeared  and  this 
helped  me  to  realize  how  important  I  was 
after  all.  But  not  all  of  my  water  escaped 
over  the  top  of  the  dam,  for  man  had  fash- 
ioned a  long  dark  tunnel  underground  and 
part  of  my  flow  went  through  that. 

"  At  the  end  of  this  tunnel  was  a  queer 
round  box,  into  which  I  rushed,  making  it  go 


70         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

round  and  round,  but  I  finally  escaped,  all 
white  and  foaming  with  anger. 

"  Sometimes  the  passage  leading  to  the 
tunnel  was  shut,  but  much  of  the  time  it  was 
open. 

"  When  I  rushed  into  this  queer  box  and 
sent  it  spinning  round  and  round,  it  turned 
other  round  things,  and  there  was  a  great 
humming  and  roaring  in  the  house  above. 

"  Finally  I  understood  what  an  important 
work  I  was  doing  in  this  mill,  which  ground 
the  grist  for  many  miles  around,  then  I  was 
glad  that  I  could  help.  Some  days  I  was 
obliged  to  turn  the  wheels  all  day  long,  but  it 
made  many  people  glad. 

"  This  was  the  first  of  a  dozen  dams  that 
were  built  upon  my  course  and  finally  I  was 
made  to  do  many  kinds  of  work.  I  not  only 
ground  corn  and  wheat,  but  sawed  logs  and 
turned  the  loom  that  made  cloth  to  keep  men 
and  women  warm.  Mine  has  been  a  useful 
life,  ever  since  the  rock  was  cleft  and  I 
spouted  forth  into  the  light  of  day. 

"  After  the  white  man  came,  the  red  man. 


The  Story  of  Willow  Brook         7 1 

the  deer  and  the  great  moose  soon  ceased  to 
frequent  my  banks. 

"  Also  the  geese  and  ducks  became  less  nu- 
merous. But  I  still  possess  much  that  is 
interesting  to  one  who  loves  the  sound  of  run- 
ning water,  and  the  fragrance  of  sweet  flag 
and  water  lilies. 

"  Every  autumn  the  speckled  trout  swims 
far  up  my  winding  way  to  my  many  branches, 
to  spawn.  The  eggs  are  covered  up  and  left 
to  hatch,  when  the  spring  sun  shall  warm  the 
water  sufficiently. 

"  In  the  springtime  I  am  the  nursery  of 
many  kinds  of  spawn.  The  trout  and  the  red 
fin,  the  dace  and  the  bullhead,  the  great 
green  bullfrog  and  the  lizard,  and  many 
small  crustaceans  are  all  cradled  in  my  cur- 
rent. 

"  Each  mossy  stone,  and  each  sandy  shal- 
low is  a  hatchery.  Then  all  my  sparkling 
current  teems  with  life. 

"While  the  rich  larvae,  shining  like  gold, 
feed  all  lower  forms  of  life. 

"  In  the  springtime  the  cowslip  unfolds  her 


72         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

chalice  of  gold  above,  me  and  the  sweet  flag 
and  the  cattail  again  put  on  their  green. 
Then  water  grasses  and  willows  blossom,  and 
my  banks  are  fragrant  and  sweet  with  the 
glad  new  life. 

"  Late  in  June  the  water  lily  unfolds  and 
makes  fragrant  my  deep  pools.  Then  the 
wood  duck,  the  sandpiper,  the  woodcock  and 
the  bittern  lead  forth  their  young,  and  my 
banks  are  a  nursery  for  the  fowls  of  the  air. 

"  Little  children,  too,  love  to  sport  in  my 
shallows,  and  catch  shiners  and  polly-wogs. 
Men  and  boys  seek  me  and  dangle  their  lines 
in  my  depths,  angling  for  my  speckled  trout, 
and  the  whole  countryside  for  many  miles 
around  is  glad  because  they  know  Willow 
Brook. 

"  Many  a  great  lesson  of  life  I  teach,  if  men 
would  only  heed  my  teachings. 

"  I  teach  the  lesson  of  purity  and  cleanli- 
ness as  no  other  thing  in  nature  does.  To- 
day you  may  fill  me  with  unclean  things,  but 
to-morrow  I  will  run  as  sweet  and  pure  as 
ever.  No  matter  how  bright  the  stars  are 


The  Story  of  Willow  Brook         73 

they  can  always  find  their  reflection  in  my 
bosom.  I  teach  the  lesson  of  industry,  for  I 
am  never  idle.  I  turn  the  mill  that  feeds  the 
world.  I  water  the  meadow,  enrich  the  bar- 
ren places  of  earth.  I  lave  and  feed  the  roots 
of  plants  and  trees  and  make  my  world  fresh 
and  glad. 

"  I  never  go  backward  as  men  often  do, 
but  my  motto  is  always  onward,  towards 
deeper  and  broader  things.  I  am  always 
stronger  to-day  than  I  was  yesterday. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  being  lost  or  forgot- 
ten, even  though  I  mingle  with  larger  streams 
and  am  seemingly  lost.  My  water  drops  are 
still  there  doing  their  little  part.  Even 
though  I  at  last  mingle  with  the  great  ocean, 
with  the  current  of  a  thousand  streams,  yet 
will  I  return  to  the  cloud,  and  sing  through 
the  meadow  again.  Again  will  the  cowslip 
and  the  lily  open  their  hearts  at  my  touch  and 
the  meadow  be  glad  at  my  coming. 

"  I  cannot  linger  for  longer  even  under  this 
rustic  old  bridge,  where  the  willow  and  the 
alder  greet  me  and  all  whisper  for  me  to  stay, 


74         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

1 '  But  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever/  " 


CHAPTER  III 
A  LITTLE  DAPPLE  FOOL 


CHAPTER  III 

A  Little  Dapple  Fool 

THE  misty  morn  hung  low  on  the  eastern 
hilltops  and  the  earth  waited  expectantly  for 
the  dawn  of  day.  The  first  evidence  of  its 
coming  had  been  a  long  low  fleecy  cloud  that 
hung  like  a  curtain  over  the  hilltops.  At  first 
the  cloud  had  been  cold  like  a  shroud  with  not 
even  a  suggestion  of  warmth,  but  gradually 
tints  of  pink  and  saffron  had  crept  into  its 
centre  and  the  whole  had  been  transfused 
with  a  wonderful  glow. 

Now  it  vibrated  and  trembled  in  the  bal- 
ance, half  vapor  and  half  light,  like  a  nicely 
adjusted  scale  which  would  turn  in  either 
direction  at  the  slightest  touch. 

Suddenly,  as  though  by  magic,  the  veil 
parted,  the  pink  and  saffron  grew  and  deep- 
ened in  intensity  and  the  round  smiling  face 


78         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

of  the  sun  peeped  through  the  gossamer  veil 
and  all  the  birds  in  the  treetops  set  up  a  great 
chirping  and  twittering;  the  squirrels  chat- 
tered, and  all  the  four-footed  creatures  be- 
came vocal,  each  after  its  kind. 

This  was  the  morning  greeting  of  the 
furred  and  feathered  folks  to  the  warm  sun 
whose  coming  cheered  and  gladdened  them. 

An  hour  before  a  dainty  doe  had  gone 
down  into  the  valley,  stepping  lightly  and 
daintily,  as  does  her  kind,  in  search  of  her 
breakfast. 

Her  little  dappled  fawn,  whom  she  had 
left  hidden  in  the  top  of  a  fallen  tree,  was  a 
great  strain  upon  her  and  the  mother  was  as 
ravenous  as  a  wolf. 

But  there  was  plenty  of  good  feed  in  the 
valley  and  as  the  deer  were  protected  by  law, 
there  was  little  danger  in  her  going.  So  fear- 
less had  the  deer  become  that  her  mate,  the 
proud,  heavy  antlered  buck,  who  had  lived  in 
and  about  the  mountain  for  several  years,  fre- 
quently grazed  in  the  neighboring  pastures 
with  the  cattle. 


A  Little  Dapple  Fool  79 

The  little  dapple  fawn  was  asleep  when  his 
mother  had  left,  but  the  lesson  necessary  to 
his  safety  had  been  faithfully  taught  him 
and  the  instinct  of  his  ancestors  was  in  his 
veins. 

He  was  concealed  in  the  very  thickest  part 
of  the  treetop  and  his  mother  had  to  make  a 
great  jump  to  reach  him  without  trampling 
down  the  boughs  and  thus  betray  their  where- 
abouts. 

Presently  he  saw  bright  pencils  of  light 
streaming  through  his  treetop  and  the  birds 
began  singing  in  the  woods  for  very  joy. 
Then  he  knew  that  it  was  daylight  and  that 
his  mother  would  soon  be  back. 

With  the  coming  of  the  sunbeams  the  scent 
of  the  pine  needles  was  quickened  into  life, 
and  a  dozen  wonderful  fragrances  stirred  into 
being  upon  the  puffs  of  the  fresh  morning 
breeze.  All  nature  seemed  new  and  vital,  re- 
vived and  quickened  by  the  sparkling  dew- 
drops  that  trembled  on  the  petals  of  each  wild 
flower  and  which  gemmed  even  the  weeds  as 
well. 


80         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

There  was  a  chink  between  the  foliage  of 
the  fallen  treetop  through  which  the  fawn 
amused  himself  by  staring  with  mild,  wide- 
open  eyes.  Now,  in  the  absence  of  his 
mother,  he  fell  to  watching  the  life  about  him 
through  his  small  window  in  the  green 
plumes  of  the  fallen  tree. 

Presently,  something  caught  his  eye  that 
arrested  his  attention  and  held  it  with  a  fear- 
ful fascination  that  he  could  not  shake  off. 
Though  it  terrified  him  for  some  reason  to 
look  at  what  he  saw,  yet  the  sight  held  him, 
and  he  could  not  even  shut  his  eyes. 

A  few  rods  down  the  mountain  side  a  great, 
gray  cat  was  creeping  stealthily  through  the 
woods,  stopping  every  now  and  then,  with 
one  paw  upraised,  to  listen  and  to  test  the 
wind. 

This  cat,  like  the  doe  down  in  the  valley, 
was  a  wild  mother,  and  the  pangs  of  hunger 
gnawed  at  her  vitals.  Three  blind  kittens  in 
a  hollow  fallen  basswood  were  waiting  for 
her,  and  it  needed  all  her  natural  cunning  to 
feed  herself  and  her  kittens. 


A  Little  Dapple  Fool  81 

The  wind  was  blowing  the  scent  of  the  hid- 
den fawn  in  the  treetop  straight  away  from 
her,  but  it  blew  the  strong  body  scent  of  the 
cat  full  in  the  fawn's  widely  extended  nos- 
trils. He  had  never  smelled  anything  like  it 
before  and  some  wild  instinct  told  him  that  it 
was  a  fearful  scent,  fraught  with  danger. 

A  strong  impulse  was  on  him  to  bell  wildly 
for  his  mother,  whom  he  felt  sure  would  come 
running  and  drive  away  this  fearful  prowler. 
But  silence  had  been  one  of  the  lessons  his 
wild  mother  had  enjoined,  so  he  stifled  his 
terror  and  lay  with  tense,  quivering  muscles, 
while  the  great  cat  drew  nearer  and  nearer. 

At  last,  the  hunting  wildcat  crept  to  within 
ten  paces  of  the  treetop  and  stood  watching 
and  listening,  testing  the  wind,  with  all  her 
nerves  intent  upon  discovering  game.  She 
had  not  even  scented  the  fawn  as  the  wind, 
which  was  strong,  blew  directly  away  from 
her,  but  she  had  noticed  deer  signs  and  knew 
that  a  doe  had  been  that  way  this  morning. 

The  fawn  staring  wide-eyed  through  his 
chink  in  the  foliage  lay  as  still  as  death,  but 


82         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

his  eyes  were  fastened  intently  upon  the  in- 
truder. 

The  great  cat  looked  doubtfully  this  way 
and  that  but  nothing  seemed  stirring  in  this 
quarter.  She  sat  down  on  her  stub  of  a  tail 
to  consider  which  thicket  to  hunt  next.  The 
heaviness  of  her  night's  sleep  had  not  been  en- 
tirely thrown  off  for  she  had  just  come  from 
her  lair,  so  she  opened  her  great  mouth,  show- 
ing her  ferocious  visage  at  its  fiercest,  and 
yawned. 

To  the  little  watcher  peeping  through  his 
window  in  the  treetop,  this  was  the  last  straw. 
It  filled  him  with  uncontrollable  terror. 
With  a  pitiful  bell  of  fear,  he  bounded  from 
the  treetop  and  ran  wildly  down  the  mountain 
side,  fear  lending  wings  to  his  hoofs. 

Probably  a  more  astonished  wildcat  never 
stood  on  the  mountain  side  than  the  old  hunt- 
ress. But  her  flash  of  astonishment  was  in- 
stantly swept  away  by  her  primitive  instinct 
of  the  hunt. 

The  fleeing  fawn  had  not  taken  three 
jumps  when  she  was  after  him,  springing 


THE  FAWN  HAD  NOT  TAKEN  THREE  JUMPS  WHEN 
SHE  WAS  AFTER  HIM 


A  Little  Dapple  Fool  83 

twice  to  his  once,  and  overhauling  him 
rapidly. 

Half  a  dozen  rods  further  down  the  hill- 
side, in  the  peaceful  aisles  of  the  tranquil 
woods,  where  the  birds  sang  and  the  dew 
sparkled  on  the  grass,  the  helpless  dappled 
creature  was  borne  to  earth. 

With  a  mighty  bound  the  wildcat  landed 
fairly  upon  his  back  and  he  went  down,  al- 
most without  a  struggle,  and  the  cat's  power- 
ful jaws  soon  silenced  his  pitiful  bleating. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  was  dragging  the 
lifeless  carcass  further  down  the  hillside  that 
she  might  hide  it  in  a  deep  thicket,  where  the 
prowling  fox,  and  the  crow,  and  owls,  should 
not  find  it. 

A  trail  of  broken-down  ferns  and  weeds 
marked  their  going,  and  bloodspots  sparkled 
among  the  dewdrops. 

The  little  fawn  had  paid  the  penalty  for 
disobedience,  the  price  that  is  always  exacted 
in  the  wild. 

Half  an  hour  later  when  the  wild  mother 
returned,  something  told  her  from  afar  that 


84         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

all  was  not  well  with  jher  little  one.  Was  it 
mother  love  that  made  her  so  keen  to  see  dan- 
ger for  her  offspring?  She  came  running  half 
fearfully  to  the  treetop  and  jumped  into  the 
fawn's  hiding-place  as  usual,  but  it  was 
empty. 

With  a  bell  of  wounded  mother  love,  she 
sprang  out  again,  and  ran  frantically  hither 
and  thither,  her  terror  and  frenzy  growing 
each  minute. 

Into  every  thicket  she  peered  wild-eyed 
and  helpless. 

The  great  cat  heard  her  running  frantically 
by  her  lair  as  she  lay  licking  her  chops  and 
purring  contentedly  over  her  blind  kittens. 
Her  belly  was  full,  her  milk  would  flow  freely 
now  and  there  would  be  no  more  hunger  in 
the  cat  family  for  several  days. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  FAMILY  OF  BOB-WHITE 


CHAPTER  IV  ' 

The  Family  of  Bob-White 

BLITHE,  cheerful  little  Bob- White  sat  on 
the  top  of  a  barpost  whistling  his  merry  call, 
"  bob-white,  bob,  bob-bob-white,  bob-white, 
bob,  bob-white." 

Bob- White  was  very  well  satisfied  with  the 
whole  world  that  spring  morning,  and  with 
his  own  lot  in  particular,  for  something  told 
him  in  the  plainest  kind  of  language  that 
spring  had  come.  In  fact  all  the  birds  that 
he  had  seen  this  morning  had  been  talking 
about  it,  and  Bob-White  knew  just  enough 
of  their  language  to  understand.  What  else 
did  blue  bird  mean  by  his  sweet  "  cheerily, 
cheerily,"  and  Cock  Robin,  by  his  lusty 
'*  cheerup,  cheerup."  Still  more  convincing 
than  either  of  these,  was  a  great  noisy  flock 
of  wild  geese  that  swung  rapidly  across  the 


88          Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

spring  sky,  flinging,  afar  to  the  brown  earth 
their  strong  clear  water  slogan  of  "  honk, 
honk,  honk." 

Bob-White,  like  the  rest  of  the  quail  in  the 
vicinity,  had  just  passed  through  a  very  se- 
vere winter,  so  was  it  any  wonder  that  he 
whistled  his  merriest  tune  this  balmy  morn- 
ing? 

Each  time  when  he  stopped  whistling  he 
hopped  down  on  the  top  bar  of  the  gateway 
and  strutted  back  and  forth  like  a  veritable 
turkey  cock.  First,  he  would  extend  one 
wing  to  its  full  sweep,  then  the  other,  and 
finally  spreading  both  wings  and  his  comical 
short  tail  he  would  strut  up  and  down  saying 
in  his  every  motion,  "  now  if  you  want  to  see 
a  fine  bird  just  look  at  me." 

He  was  not  a  showy  bird,  although  his  suit 
was  neat  and  quite  jaunty.  His  back  and 
shoulders  were  a  combination  of  brown  and 
gray,  while  his  undersides  were  lighter.  The 
feathers  on  the  top  of  his  head  were  rather 
inclined  to  stand  up  like  a  pompadour,  and 
under  his  throat  was  a  white  necktie.  The 


The  Family  of  Bob-White          89 

most  that  could  be  said  for  such  a  dress  was, 
that  it  was  not  conspicuous,  and  so  was  not 
calculated  to  attract  the  eyes  of  any  of  Bob- 
White's  enemies,  such  as  hawks,  owls,  or  men. 

But  Bob- White  was  whistling  for  some- 
thing else  beside  good  spirits  this  morning. 
He  was  whistling  for  a  wife. 

Presently  from  down  across  the  fields  as 
though  in  answer  to  his  calling  came  a  clear, 
''  white,  white,  white,"  or  if  you  had  been  in 
a  more  romantic  frame  of  mind  you  might 
have  thought  that  the  clear  low  whistling  said, 
"  here,  here,  here." 

Bob-White  heard  it,  and  was  pleased  with 
the  effect  of  his  own  musical  voice,  so  he  re- 
doubled his  calls  of  "  bob-white,  bob-white," 
and  listened  at  regular  intervals  for  the  mu- 
sical "white, white, white,"  that  came  in  return. 

When  this  calling  and  answering  had  gone 
on  for  some  time  Bob- White  flew  away  to  in- 
vestigate, and  his  wings  made  such  a  whirring 
and  struck  so  fast  that  this  fact  alone  pro- 
claimed him  a  member  of  the  partridge  fam- 
ily. He  is  the  smallest  of  all  the  partridges, 


90         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

and  is  known  in  parts  -of  the  south  as  the  Vir- 
ginia partridge. 

While  Bob- White  is  making  love  to  a  shy 
lady  quail  down  in  the  thicket,  let  us  briefly 
consider  his  short  life  up  to  this  morning, 
that  you  may  know  why  he  was  so  glad  spring 
had  come,  and  why  the  answering  call  from 
the  thicket  had  been  so  sweet  to  his  ears. 

The  latter  part  of  May,  the  previous 
spring,  Bob-White  had  been  merely  one  of 
fifteen  eggs  lying  cunningly  concealed  in  a 
nest  made  on  the  ground  under  a  brush  fence. 

About  the  middle  of  June  all  of  these  fif- 
teen eggs  had  begun  to  manifest  signs  of  life, 
and  in  about  fifteen  minutes  after  the  first  tiny 
bill  appeared,  the  whole  brood  was  hatched. 

They  were  no  featherless,  hairless,  gawky 
fledglings,  but  bright,  alert  chicks  fairly  well 
clad,  and  as  smart  as  crickets. 

In  a  few  hours  they  were  following  their 
mother  about  picking  up  their  living  just  as 
though  they  had  done  nothing  else  for  years. 

But  an  evil  fate  had  pursued  the  brood 
from  the  very  day  of  hatching.  When  they 


The  Family  of  Bob-White          91 

were  a  week  old  a  weasel  happened  upon 
them  in  the  night,  and  before  their  vigilant 
little  mother  had  been  able  to  scatter  and  hide 
them,  he  sucked  the  blood  of  three,  and  the 
family  was  reduced  to  an  even  dozen. 

A  grub  or  louse  had  claimed  two  more 
within  another  week,  and  the  family  was 
down  to  ten.  The  next  thief  to  come  among 
them  was  the  sparrow-hawk,  who  took  one  in 
each  claw  at  a  single  swoop,  leaving  but  eight; 
these  eight,  however,  lived  until  the  hunting 
season  opened  in  the  autumn,  when  four  of 
them  went  into  a  game  bag  before  they  even 
thought  of  scattering  and  thus  diminishing 
their  peril. 

After  that  ominous  day  they  never  knew 
just  when  the  deafening  banging  would  be- 
gin, and  they  were  not  left  in  peace  for  many 
days  at  a  time. 

When  the  season  finally  closed,  there  were 
two  chicks  and  one  of  the  old  birds  left.  Only 
three  out  of  seventeen,  the  original  family. 

In  addition  to  such  bad  luck  as  this  the 
following  winter  had  been  exceptionally  hard. 


92         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

The  scattered  grain,  and  the  weed-seeds  had 
been  covered  by  the  first  snow-storm,  and  they 
did  not  appear  again  until  the  warm  spring 
rains  uncovered  the  brown  earth,  so  the  quail 
had  to  depend  entirely  upon  the  winter  ber- 
ries and  buds  for  sustenance. 

The  bright  red  berries  of  the  sumac,  the 
bitter-sweet,  and  the  purple  berries  of  the 
Virginia  creeper,  had  stood  them  in  good 
stead.  Also  juniper  and  poison  ivy  berries 
had  furnished  them  many  a  meal. 

When  these  were  all  gone  they  went  into 
the  deep  woods  and  scratched  about  fallen 
logs  for  partridge  berries  or  occasionally  dis- 
covered a  wind-swept  knoll  where  checker- 
berries  could  be  found. 

With  such  scant  food  as  this,  and  with  seed 
obtained  from  an  occasional  tall  weed,  that 
stuck  its  friendly  head  above  the  snow  they 
had  managed  to  live  until  February,  but 
finally  even  this  supply  gave  out,  and  they 
resorted  to  their  last  hope,  and  visited  a  farm- 
yard in  the  vicinity. 

Each  day  they  went  to  the  barnyard,  and 


The  Family  of  Bob- White          93 

scratched  in  the  dung-heap  for  particles  of 
grain.  It  was  while  feeding  in  this  manner 
that  the  house-cat  took  one,  and  the  quail  fam- 
ily was  reduced  to  a  pair.  But  they  still 
came  to  the  farmyard,  as  they  could  do  noth- 
ing else. 

Bob- White  and  his  sister  clung  very  closely 
to  one  another  now  they  were  all  that  was  left 
of  the  large  quail  family,  but  one  night  while 
they  were  sleeping  side  by  side  in  a  tangle  of 
bitter-sweet  and  fir  tree,  a  great  owl  reached 
in  his  strong  talons  and  took  one,  and  Bob- 
White  was  left  alone  in  the  great  world. 

But  this  had  happened  only  two  or  three 
weeks  before  the  time  when  our  story  begins, 
and  Bob-White  had  found  food  in  plenty 
shortly  after  the  owl  had  deprived  him  of  his 
companion. 

At  first,  Bob- White  could  not  locate  the 
shy  little  lady  quail  who  had  been  calling  to 
him  from  the  thicket;  but  he  finally  discov- 
ered her  picking  away  for  dear  life  at  weed- 
seed,  just  as  though  breakfast  was  much  more 
to  her  taste  than  love  making. 


94         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

For  a  long  time  she  would  take  no  notice  of 
him  but  he  strutted  up  and  down  so  per- 
sistently that  she  finally  looked  up.  Even 
then,  her  manner  plainly  said,  "  Why,  where 
in  the  world  did  you  come  from;  I  did  not 
suppose  there  was  a  bob-white  anywhere  in 
this  region?"  Little  by  little,  Bob-White 
gained  her  goodwill  until  at  last  she  would  let 
him  help  her  scratch  for  weed-seeds.  They 
spent  a  very  pleasant  forenoon  together  and 
the  thing  was  as  good  as  settled. 

The  following  morning,  Bob- White  was 
again  perched  on  his  barpost  whistling  his 
cheery  call-note,  but  when  the  answer  came 
up  clear  from  the  thicket,  "  white,  white, 
white,"  and  he  flew  down  to  meet  his  in- 
tended, sad  to  relate,  another  bob-white  was 
helping  her  hunt  for  weed-seed. 

Then  her  own  particular  Bob- White  flew 
at  his  rival  and  a  cock  fight  began  which 
would  have  been  most  comical  had  not  the 
combatants  been  so  deadly  in  earnest.  They 
lowered  their  heads  and  came  at  each  other  in 
true  game-cock  style,  striking  with  beak  and 


The  Family  of  Bob  White          95 

wing  and  sometimes  even  buffeting  one  an- 
other over. 

But  our  own  Bob- White  was  fighting  for 
his  rights,  for  the  admiration  and  affection  of 
his  mate  and  the  nest  they  intended  to  build, 
while  the  other  was  merely  an  intruder;  so, 
having  right  on  his  side,  he  soon  punished  his 
rival  severely  and  he  flew  away  discomfited. 

When  the  field  was  clear  and  Bob-White 
had  been  left  conqueror,  he  went  up  to  his 
fickle  wife  and  gave  her  a  savage  peck  on  the 
head  as  much  as  to  say,  "  You  faithless  hussy, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  you,  I  should  not  have 
had  all  this  trouble." 

Only  once  more  did  a  rival  dare  to  make 
love  to  Mrs.  Bob- White,  and  then  the  in- 
truder was  driven  away  as  before  and  the  wife 
punished  for  her  faithlessness. 

This  honeymoon  lasted  for  about  ten  days 
and  then  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bob-White  selected  a 
place  for  their  nest.  It  was  under  the  edge 
of  an  old  fallen  log,  well  screened  from  view 
and  sheltered  from  the  rain.  Each  day  for 
about  two  weeks  Mrs.  Bob- White  deposited 


96         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

an  egg  in  the  nest,  until  the  number  was  six- 
teen, then  began  her  arduous  task  of  incuba- 
tion. 

Two  or  three  times  during  that  long  three 
weeks  Mr.  Bob-White  took  his  turn  upon  the 
eggs  for  half  an  hour  while  his  wife  went  for 
a  dust  bath. 

There  are  ornithologists  who  accuse  Bob- 
White  of  being  a  bigamist,  but  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  he  ever  woos  the  second  wife  until 
after  the  first  chicks  have  hatched,  and  that 
might  be  called  a  lawful  second  marriage.  I 
do  not  doubt,  however,  but  that  he  would  flirt 
with  a  coquettish  lady  quail  even  while  his 
own  faithful  wife  was  sitting  on  the  eggs  if 
chance  offered. 

About  the  twentieth  of  June  Mrs.  Bob- 
White  appeared,  closely  followed  by  fourteen 
quail  chicks.  She  was  clucking  and  bristling 
like  the  good  little  mother  partridge  that  she 
is,  and  each  of  the  tiny  chicks  was  spry  as  a 
cricket.  It  had  not  been  necessary  for  the 
old  birds  to  carry  food  to  these  nestlings. 
After  the  first  tiny  little  creature  had  picked 


The  Family  of  Bob-White          97 

his  way  through  the  shell,  his  lusty  peep  had 
set  all  the  others  to  work  and  in  half  an  hour 
the  whole  brood  had  arrived.  Then,  when 
they  had  dried  and  had  a  little  time  in  which 
to  gain  strength,  they  were  ready  for  the 
world. 

Forth  they  all  came,  the  mother  clucking 
and  bristling  and  the  chicks  scampering  this 
way  and  that,  pecking  at  almost  invisible 
plant-lice  and  bugs  and  feeding  themselves 
within  the  same  hour  that  they  came  from  the 
nest. 

For  two  or  three  nights  Mrs.  Bob- White 
led  them  back  to  the  old  nest,  but  after  that 
it  was  given  up  and  they  never  returned  to  it. 

One  night  when  they  were  about  a  week 
old  Mrs.  Bob- White  led  them  to  sleep  in  a 
little  hollow  under  an  overhanging  rock. 
During  the  night  there  was  a  terrible  down- 
pour of  rain  and  the  hollow  filled  rapidly. 
Before  the  young  mother  could  conduct  her 
chicks  to  higher  and  drier  ground,  three  were 
drowned  in  the  puddle. 

After  this,  there  were  no  fatalities  in  the 


98         Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

quail  family  for  nearly  two  months.  For  the 
first  two  weeks  Bob- White  hovered  about  his 
family  trying  to  protect  them  and  giving  his 
wife  much  good  advice  about  bringing  up 
children;  but  she  finally  told  him  that  she 
could  get  along  quite  well  without  him,  and 
he  took  her  at  her  word. 

The  August  moon  hung  large  and  lumi- 
nous above  the  eastern  hills.  There  was  the 
smell  of  ripening  fruit  and  maize  on  the  sum- 
mer night  air  and  the  cricket  and  the  katy-did 
were  singing  in  the  grass.  Sweet  corn  was 
already  in  the  milk,  but  the  field  corn  was  not 
yet  ripe  enough  for  the  palate  of  the  fastidi- 
ous raccoon. 

Down  from  the  deep  woods  came  Mr.  Rac- 
coon shuffling  and  shambling  like  the  real 
little  bear  that  he  is.  About  his  eyes  were 
two  black  circles  looking  like  spectacles  and 
around  the  tip  of  his  nose  was  a  white  ring. 
His  tail  also  was  ringed.  There  is  not  an- 
other sucH  suit  as  his  in  the  entire  wilderness 
east  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  Out  of  the 
woods  he  came  and  across  the  pasture  he  shuf- 


The  Family  of  Bob- White          99 

fled,  eager,  alert,  and  watchful,  often  stop- 
ping to  test  the  air  and  poke  his  inquisitive 
nose  under  a  log  or  flat  stone. 

Soon  a  fresh  puff  of  night  wind  brought 
him  a  most  exciting  scent.  He  knew  it  quite 
well.  It  was  that  of  a  bevy  of  quail  in  hiding. 
The  old  raccoon  knew  just  how  they  stood  in 
that  circular  bunch  with  their  tails  all  to- 
gether and  their  heads  looking  outward,  that 
they  might  face  in  every  direction. 

He  flattened  himself  to  the  ground  and 
crept  forward  on  his  belly  almost  as  still  as  a 
cat.  He  was  no  longer  the  clumsy  little  bear 
but  the  cautious  hunter.  Once  he  heard  the 
bevy  stirring  uneasily  in  their  sleep  as  though 
they  had  knowledge  of  coming  danger.  Then 
he  lay  very  still  and  waited  until  the  mother 
bird's  "  erects "  and  the  soft  peeps  of  the 
chickens  had  ceased.  He  now  crept  forward 
again.  Nearer  and  nearer  he  drew,  going 
more  cautiously  with  each  succeeding  step, 
until  at  last  he  was  within  springing  distance. 
He  then  flattened  himself  out  on  the  ground, 
intensified  all  his  muscles  until  they  were  like 


I  oo       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

steel  and  with  a  sudden  motion  sprang  full  in 
the  midst  of  the  sleeping  bevy. 

Click,  click,  click,  went  his  jaws,  snapping 
like  lightning  in  every  direction. 

There  was  the  sudden  whirr  of  many  wings 
and  a  chorus  of  squeaks,  peeps,  and  squawks 
from  a  dozen  birds  and  in  three  seconds'  time 
the  bevy  were  gone  with  the  exception  of  two 
wounded  birds  who  fluttered  feebly  in  the 
grass.  But  a  bite  apiece  from  Mr.  Raccoon 
soon  stopped  their  fluttering.  Then  the 
hunter  lay  down  where,  a  few  minutes  before, 
the  quail  family  had  slept  and  made  his  sup- 
per of  quail,  without  toast. 

August  and  September  came  and  went  and 
the  quail  family  grew  plump  upon  grain  and 
weed-seed  but  the  loss  of  grain  to  the  farmer 
was  more  than  offset  by  the  weed-seed  they 
destroyed.* 

October  with  its  corn  in  the  shock  and 
golden  pumpkins  and  harvested  grain  and 
fruit  was  with  us  when  another  hunter  came 

*It  has  been  estimated  by  the  agricultural  department  of 
the  United  States  that  the  quail  in  Maryland  and  Virginia 
annually  destroy  two  hundred  and  fifty  tons  of  weed-seed. 


The  Family  of  Bob-White        i  o  i 

down  from  the  great  wood  in  quest  of  warm 
blood.  This  hunter  did  not  shuffle  as  the  old 
raccoon  had  done,  but  his  gait  was  a  steady 
trot.  When  the  night  wind  stirred,  bearing 
the  delicious  fragrance  of  witch-hazel,  one 
might  have  noticed  a  musky,  pungent  odor 
from  the  night  prowler.  It  was  Red-Fox, 
the  wise  and  the  witty,  and  a  much  more  suc- 
cessful hunter  than  the  old  raccoon. 

He,  too,  got  a  scent  of  quail  down  in  the 
pasture  and  followed  it  eagerly.  His  step 
was  swift  and  sure  and  his  nose  was  keen. 
Swiftly  like  a  dark  shadow  he  advanced  until 
he  located  the  sleeping  quail  under  an  old 
brush  fence.  Then  he  crept  forward  foot  by 
foot  until  he  was  almost  upon  them,  when 
with  a  sudden  spring  he  darted  into  their 
midst. 

Again,  there  was  the  sudden  whirr  of  many 
wings  and  cries  of  fear  and  pain,  mingled 
with  the  rapid  click,  click,  of  the  fox's  jaws. 
When  the  bevy  was  gone  and  Mr.  Fox  nosed 
about  under  the  fence  he  found  He  also  had 
bagged  a  pair  of  quail. 


102       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

No  more  misfortunes  befell  the  quail  fam- 
ily until  the  first  day  of  the  open  season. 
Then  a  party  of  sportsmen  with  dogs  and 
guns  drove  them  from  cover  to  cover,  while 
the  guns  cracked  merrily.  It  was  a  cold,  raw 
day  of  scudding  clouds  and  biting  winds  that 
plainly  told  of  coming  winter.  This,  added 
to  the  incessant  roar  of  firearms,  made  that 
day  like  the  crack  of  doom  to  the  family  of 
Bob-White. 

Towards  night,  a  biting  sleet  and  rain- 
storm set  in  and  the  hunting  ceased,  but  the 
quail  family  had  been  scattered  in  every  di- 
rection and  their  friends  at  the  farmhouse 
wondered  if  any  had  survived,  so  the  old  man 
and  small  boy  went  out  into  the  storm  to  look 
for  the  quail.  The  old  man  went  ahead  with 
a  long,  swinging  stride  while  the  small  boy 
trotted  after  him. 

How  cheerless  was  the  sound  of  the  hail 
rattling  upon  the  dead  leaves  and  grass,  and 
the  moaning  of  the  winds  in  the  treetops !  All 
the  joy  and  gladness  seemed  to  have  departed 
from  the  naked,  forsaken  earth. 


HE  CREPT  FORWARD  FOOT  BY  FOOT  UNTIL  HE 
WAS  ALMOST  UPON  HIM 


The  Family  of  Bob-White        103 

These  two  had  followed  the  fortunes  of  the 
quail  family  from  the  very  first.  They  had 
discovered  the  nest  under  the  old  log  and  had 
visited  it  several  times  during  incubation. 
They  had  fished  the  three  water  soaked  chicks 
out  of  the  puddle  after  the  rain-storm  where 
the  folly  of  their  mother  had  been  only  too 
apparent. 

They  had  also  happened  upon  the  remains 
of  the  old  raccoon's  supper,  scattered  about 
near  that  circle  of  footprints.  The  depreda- 
tions of  Red  Fox  they  had  likewise  discovered 
while  repairing  the  brush  fence.  They  had 
also  seen  the  quail  many  times  in  neighboring 
grain  fields  and  had  heard  their  cheery 
"  more-wet  "  before  each  rain-storm ;  so  was  it 
any  wonder  that  their  hearts  were  heavy  to- 
night? 

The  old  man  vaulted  lightly  over  the  bar- 
way  into  the  pasture  while  the  boy  crawled 
between  the  bars.  They  went  on  for  fifteen 
or  twenty  rods  and  then  crawled  under  a 
clump  of  small  spruces  and  sat  down  where 
the  leaves  were  still  dry. 


104       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

Suddenly,  from  their  very  midst,  came  a 
clear  shrill  whistle,  pure  and  sweet  as  the  note 
of  a  piccolo,  "  bob- white,  bob- white,  bob-bob- 
white." 

"  They  are  right  here  in  the  bush,  Ben," 
exclaimed  the  boy  in  an  eager  whisper,  pull- 
ing excitedly  at  his  companion's  sleeve. 

The  old  man  chuckled  and  laughed  softly. 
"  That  was  me,"  he  whispered.  "  I  had  my 
hand  over  my  mouth  so  you  could  not  tell 
where  the  sound  came  from."  Again  he  re- 
peated the  musical  call  and  both  waited  and 
listened.  Then,  faint  and  far  across  the  pas- 
ture land,  like  an  echo,  came  the  reply,  "  bob- 
white,  bob-white,  bob-bob-white." 

"That's  him,"  whispered  Ben.  "Now 
keep  perfectly  still  and  you  will  hear  some- 
thing worth  while." 

Presently  the  two  watchers  under  the  little 
spruces  heard  the  well-known  whirr  of  short, 
fast  beating  wings,  and  a  second  later  Bob- 
White  himself  plumped  down  under  the  cover 
within  two  yards  of  them.  He  shook  the  wet 
from  his  wings,  preened  his  feathers  for  a 


The  Family  of  Bob- White        105 

moment  and  then  swelling  out  his  breast,  ut- 
tered his  sweet  call-note.  It  was  useless  for 
the  old  man  to  call  now  that  the  real  Bob- 
White  had  sounded  his  roll  call  so  they 
waited,  and  listened. 

Again  came  the  low  whistle  from  far  away 
in  the  pasture  land  but  this  time  it  was  only, 
"  white,  white,  white."  Soon  the  swift  whirr 
of  beating  wings  was  heard  and  a  moment 
later  the  second  quail  alighted  under  the 
scrub  spruce. 

"  Cureet,  cureee,  cur-r,  cure-e-e,"  cried 
Bob- White  in  soft,  quail  words  of  love  and 
welcome.  "  Peep,  pure-e-,  e-e,  e-e,"  replied 
the  chicken. 

The  greeting  and  response  were  scarcely 
over  when  another  quail  whirred  under  the 
bush  and  another,  and  still  another. 

"  Cureet,  cure-e-e,  cur-r,  cure-e-e,"  was  the 
salutation  of  Bob- White  to  each  newcomer  as 
they  huddled  together  and  rejoiced  in  bird 
language  that  they  had  found  one  another 
again.  After  a  few  minutes  they  quieted 
down  and  the  listeners  knew  that  they  had 


1 06       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

formed  themselves  into  the  well-known  bunch 
and  fallen  asleep,  so  they  stole  quietly  away, 
leaving  them  dry  and  comfortable  under  the 
spruce,  but  it  was  only  part  of  the  family, 
Bob-White  and  four  of  his  chicks;  the  little 
hen  and  the  other  four  had  gone  away  in  the 
hunter's  game  bag. 

December  and  January  came  and  went  and 
the  leafless,  flowerless  world  was  in  the  clutch 
of  midwinter.  Day  after  day  the  snow  fell 
and  the  cold  was  so  intense  that  sometimes  in 
the  deep  woods  the  stout  heart  of  maple  or 
birch  was  cracked  asunder. 

One  morning,  when  the  small  boy  who  had 
gone  to  the  pasture  that  night  with  Old  Ben 
to  search  for  the  quail  awoke,  he  found  the 
world  ice-clad  and  snow-bound  and  in  the 
clutch  of  a  terrible  freeze.  The  windows  were 
so  clouded  with  frost  that  he  could  not  see  out 
until  he  had  melted  it  with  his  breath,  but 
when  the  frost  had  been  melted,  the  boy  cried 
out  with  grief,  for  there  upon  the  window-sill 
huddled  close  to  the  glass  was  the  stiff,  stark 
form  of  his  Bob-White. 


The  Family  of  Bob-White        107 

He  had  died  with  his  breast  to  the  window 
pane  with  only  a  sixteenth  of  an  inch  of  trans- 
parent something'  between  him  and  the 
warmth  that  would  have  saved  him.  As 
pitilessly  as  the  glacier  grinds  the  pebble  to 
sand  the  great  freeze  had  pressed  him  against 
the  window  until  his  stout  little  heart  was  still, 
and  then,  as  though  ashamed  of  what  she  had 
done,  nature  had  shrouded  him  in  a  white 
mantle  of  snow. 

With  difficulty  the  boy  raised  the  window 
and  took  the  dead  quail  in  his  hands.  Care- 
fully he  brushed  the  snow  from  his  gray 
brown  coat  and  smoothed  out  his  ruffled 
feathers. 

It  was  a  far  cry  from  that  warm  spring 
morning,  when  he  had  first  seen  him  on  the 
old  barpost  whistling  his  cheery  call,  to  this 
snow-bound  frozen  world  that  seemed  more 
dead  than  alive.  Poor  little  Bob-White;  he 
had  eluded  the  hawk,  the  owl  and  the  weasel, 
the  fox,  the  raccoon  and  the  hunter,  but  the 
great  freeze  had  caught  him,  so  near  and  yet 
so  far  from  cover.  With  a  sigh  the  boy  put 


io8       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

him  back  in  the  little  snow  grave  on  the  win- 
dow-sill and  shut  the  window.  There  he 
would  let  him  lie  in  his  soft  coverlet  of  ermine 
until  the  great  storm  was  over. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  BUSY  BEE 


CHAPTER  V 

The  Busy  Bee 

THERE  is  no  more  pleasant  recollection  of 
boyhood  and  its  pleasures  than  that  of  bee 
hunting.  I  never  visit  the  country  in  July 
or  August  even  now  without  getting  the  old 
fever  to  take  a  bee  box  and  try  my  luck  again 
in  tracking  the  honey-bee  through  the  blue 
sky  to  his  honey  laden  tree. 

City  bred  people  may  often  have  wondered 
about  the  phrase  "  a  bee  line,"  but  they  never 
would  had  they  lined  fugitive  bees  to  their 
tree.  Once  the  bee  has  filled  her  honey 
stomach  a  shaft  of  light  is  not  more  straight 
than  the  line  she  makes  for  the  tree. 

How  full  of  bird  song  and  sunlight,  of  dew 
laden  grass,  and  perfume  of  flowers  and 
shrubs  are  these  memories  of  bee  hunting. 


112       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

In  boyhood  days,  bare  brown  feet  brushed 
the  dew,  sparkling  like  diamonds,  from  the 
grass.  If  the  man  goes  bee  hunting  he  must 
wear  shoes  and  thus  lose  half  the  fun. 

What  excitement  there  was,  once  we  got  a 
line  on  the  tree.  Over  fences  and  stone  walls 
we  raced,  through  swamps  and  brooks.  No 
hill  was  too  steep,  and  no  thicket  too  dense  to 
be  penetrated,  as  long  as  we  kept  the  fugitive 
bee  in  sight,  or  at  least  kept  the  line  upon  the 
tree. 

To  most  of  the  readers  of  this  book  the 
privilege  and  education  of  bee  hunting  will  be 
denied,  but  many  of  you  can  avail  yourselves 
of  a  very  good  substitute,  and  that  is  the  study 
of  the  beehive,  even  though  it  be  the  back 
yard  of  your  city  home.  I  know  many  a  man 
who  keeps  bees  with  both  profit  and  pleasure 
within  the  city  limits  of  some  large  metropolis. 
So  if  you  cannot  go  bee  hunting,  study  the 
hive,  and  you  can  learn  most  of  the  secrets 
that  the  country  boy  learns  following  the  bee 
line  to  the  honey  laden  tree. 

One  has  merely  to  take  his  stand  near  the 


The  Busy  Bee  1 1 3 

hive  on  some  warm  summer  day,  when  the 
honey  flow  is  at  its  height,  at  about  noon  to 
realize  fully  how  true  is  the  old  proverbial 
phrase,  "  as  busy  as  a  bee." 

"  Hum,  hum,  zip,  zip,  hum."  They  come 
like  bullets  in  a  lively  skirmish,  a  steady 
stream,  all  laden  with  the  sweet  of  every 
honey  flower  that  blooms  within  a  radius  of 
three  miles.  It  matters  not  whether  the  hive 
is  composed  of  black  native,  hybrids,  golden 
banded  Carniolas,  or  pure  Italians,  the  story 
is  just  the  same,  "  hum,  hum,  zip,  zip,  hum." 
All  bringing  home  some  of  that  delicious 
sweet  which  the  wonderful  chemistry  of  sun 
and  rain,  dew  and  mould  have  distilled. 

But  no  idler  gains  entrance  to  the  hive,  for 
if  the  honey  stomach  which  is  just  in  front  of 
the  real  stomach,  is  not  well  filled,  it  fares 
hard  with  the  lazy  one. 

No  military  camp  was  ever  guarded  more 
rigidly  against  the  intrusion  of  the  enemy, 
than  is  the  hive  against  the  laggard,  and 
against  thieves  from  other  hives. 

From  a  dozen  to  a  score  of  good  soldiers 


1 14       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

stand  guard  all  day,  with  spears  in  readiness. 
Each  bee  who  enters  "has  to  possess  the  pass- 
word of  a  well  filled  honey  sack,  or  the  odor 
of  her  own  particular  hive,  or  she  will  never 
gain  entrance. 

If  fifty  hives  were  set  up  in  a  row,  and  each 
hive  contained  from  twenty -five  to  fifty  thou- 
sand bees,  that  rule  of  every  bee  to  her  own 
hive  would  be  as  rigidly  enforced  as  though 
there  were  only  two  hives  instead  of  fifty. 
Does  each  hive  have  a  password  so  that  its 
inhabitants  are  known  from  those  of  several 
hundred  other  hives,  or  does  each  bee  possess 
physiological  characteristics,  that  differenti- 
ate her  from  all  the  others?  These,  and  other 
explanations  have  been  proposed  by  natural- 
ists, from  time  to  time,  but  all  such  explana- 
tions have  been  rejected  as  visionary  and 
impractical. 

Naturalists  are  now  agreed  that  the  sen- 
tinels at  the  entrance  to  the  hive  recognize 
their  own  by  the  sense  of  smell  alone.  Even 
so,  how  keen  must  be  that  sense,  when  a  hun- 
dred hives  are  to  be  discriminated  between. 


The  Busy  Bee  115 

Truly  these  little  folks  who  gather  sweets  for 
us,  put  our  simple  notions  of  biology  to  a 
severe  test,  when  we  undertake  to  explain 
some  of  the  simplest  things  about  the  hive. 

"  Hum,  hum,  zip,  zip,  hum,  hum."  From 
how  far  afield  does  this  colony  come,  and 
which  are  its  most  favored  flowers? 

All  through  the  winter  the  swarm  was 
dormant,  huddling  together  in  a  conical 
shaped  mass.  By  constantly  changing  their 
position,  so  that  the  bees  on  the  inside  of  the 
mass  came  to  the  outside,  while  those  outside 
got  inside  they  kept  warm.  On  warm  days 
when  the  thermometer  touched  forty,  there 
was  uneasiness  in  the  bunch,  and  occasionally 
a  bee  more  active  than  her  fellows  crawled  out 
to  see  how  the  winter  was  progressing.  The 
sugar  maker  occasionally  fishes  a  bee  out  of  a 
pail  of  sap,  or  he  will  see  one  on  the  trunk  of 
a  maple  tree,  sucking  sweet  from  a  crevice 
from  which  oozes  sap,  that  is  frozen  at  night 
and  turned  into  honey-like  syrup. 

The  honey-bee  always  finds  the  first  pussy- 
willow from  which  she  takes  pollen  and  the 


1 1 6       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

first  spring  wild  flowers.  Her  keen  sense  of 
smell  probably  takes  her  far  afield  in  the  early 
spring  before  flowering  has  really  begun.  The 
lilac,  and  all  the  cultivated  flowers  she  spies 
out,  but  it  is  not  until  the  new  grass  is  a  few 
inches  high,  and  the  heads  of  the  white  clover 
appear  that  the  honey  flow  can  be  said  to  have 
begun. 

From  then  on,  the  honey-bee  is  a  free- 
booter. All  the  floral  world  is  hers,  and  she 
claims  her  own  wherever  she  finds  it.  Dis- 
turb this  robber  and  sacker  of  your  orchards 
and  fields  if  you  dare.  She  will  defend  her 
right  to  all  trees,  shrubs  and  plants  that  bloom 
and  you  will  not  long  dispute  titles  with 
her. 

If  the  honey-bee  could  only  gather  honey 
from  the  red  clover!  This  is  the  bee-keeper's 
zenith  of  hope,  but  the  long  heads  of  the  red 
clover,  which  contain  much  more  of  the  deli- 
cious sweet  than  do  the  shorter  heads  of  the 
white,  are  not  for  the  honey-bee.  Nature  has 
made  her  with  too  short  a  tongue  to  reach  this 
treasure,  so  the  bumble-bee  and  the  butterfly 


The  Busy  Bee  1 1 7 

feed  on  it,  while  their  more  useful  cousin  goes 
unfed. 

On  about  every  head  of  every  stalk  in  the 
buckwheat  field  you  can  see  one  of  these 
golden-banded  robbers.  Away  in  the  deep 
woods  in  the  creamy  flowers  of  the  basswood, 
they  are  humming  and  tonguing  the  stamens 
for  the  hidden  sweet.  All  through  the  sum- 
mer days,  and  well  into  the  autumn,  the 
goldenrod  will  pay  toll  to  the  hive.  No 
roadside  flower  that  contains  sweet  is  too 
mean  or  insignificant  to  escape  the  notice  of 
this  industrious  honey-getter.  While  men 
idle  she  works,  taught  by  some  marvelous  in- 
tuition that  soon  the  flowers  will  fade,  and 
snow  cover  the  ground  and  that  if  the  honey- 
bees would  not  perish  like  the  bumble-bee, 
they  must  be  storing  up  food  for  winter. 

A  great  many  erroneous  ideas  are  held  by 
the  general  public  as  to  the  position  of  the 
queen-bee  in  the  colony.  In  the  minds  of 
many  she  is  the  master  mind,  and  a  queen  of 
absolute  power.  But  this  is  not  so,  while 
she  is  a  royal  queen,  and  her  kingdom  is  a 


1 1 8       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

veritable  empire  in  wjiich,  in  a  certain  sense, 
she  is  supreme,  yet  it  is  a  limited  monarchy, 
and  her  powers  are  more  like  those  of  a 
limited  monarch  than  those  of  a  despot. 

The  colony  would  even  go  so  far  as  to  kill 
their  queen  if  they  didn't  like  her,  or  thought 
she  was  not  serving  the  best  interests  of  the 
hive,  quite  as  the  human  family  have  disposed 
of  royalty  that  had  become  obnoxious. 

Although  the  hive  can  do  almost  nothing 
without  the  presence  and  assistance  of  the 
queen,  yet  she  is  not  its  whole  power.  This 
is  located  in  the  body  politic,  just  as  it  is  in  a 
limited  monarchy. 

In  many  ways  the  hive  can  be  controlled 
through  its  queen.  For  instance,  if  the  hive 
swarms,  and  a  part  of  its  members  leave  and 
take  up  quarters  on  the  limb  of  an  adjacent 
tree,  they  ascertain  if  the  queen  has  come  with 
them,  and  if  she  is  not  discovered  in  the  clus- 
ter, they  at  once  return  to  the  hive.  So  when 
the  bee-keeper  does  not  wish  to  have  the  hive 
swarm,  he  keeps  what  is  called  a  drone-trap 
over  the  front  door  of  the  hive.  This  enables 


The  Busy  Bee  119 

the  workers  to  go  and  come  as  they  wish  but 
the  queen  and  drones  cannot  leave  the  hive 
until  the  trap  is  removed. 

Swarming  is  a  wise  provision  of  nature 
by  means  of  which  the  hive  is  kept  from  be- 
coming congested,  and  it  is  an  unwritten  law 
in  beedom  that  the  queen  goes  with  the  swarm- 
ing bees.  This  leaves  the  old  hive  without  a 
queen  and  consequently  without  means  of 
keeping  its  numbers  good,  for  you  must  re- 
member that  the  life  of  a  bee  is  only  about 
sixty  days,  so  if  a  hive  is  left  for  any  length  of 
time  without  a  queen  to  lay  eggs  and  hatch 
out  new  members,  the  entire  colony  dies,  and 
the  bee-keeper  loses  a  hive.  But  this  rarely 
happens,  for  these  little  people  are  very  in- 
genious. Much  more  so  than  man,  in  fact, 
and  can  supply  any  existing  want  in  their 
small  but  most  active  house. 

When  the  old  hive  is  left  without  a  queen 
and  none  is  ready  to  hatch,  the  colony  may  set 
to  work  and  make  a  queen  to  order,  as  you 
might  say. 

In  our  human  government  we  have  often 


1 20       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

created  new  royal  families,  but  we  have  never 
actually  created  new  queens,  as  the  bees  have 
done. 

Several  queen  cells  containing  eggs,  that 
have  previously  been  laid  by  the  absconding 
queen,  are  now  sealed  up  and  allowed  to 
hatch,  and  the  first  new  queen  hatched  crawls 
forth  to  receive  the  homage  of  her  subjects 
which  is  hers  in  full  measure  once  she  has 
mated.  But  she  at  once  takes  a  precaution 
against  usurpers  that  our  human  royalty  have 
often  employed,  for  she  kills  all  the  unhatched 
or  partially  developed  queens  and  thus  in- 
sures her  sovereignty. 

This  act  done,  her  admiring  subjects  crowd 
around  her  and  do  homage,  feeding  her  pre- 
pared food  from  their  small  tongues,  and 
looking  for  all  the  world,  as  they  cluster 
about  her,  like  a  large  daisy,  with  its  golden 
queenly  centre. 

It  is  a  time  of  perturbation  when  the  new 
queen  flies  forth  to  mate.  She  is  at  once 
missed  and  clouds  of  bees  pour  forth  from  the 
hive  in  search  of  her.  This  confusion  often 


The  Busy  Bee  121 

alarms  the  novice  into  thinking  that  the  hive 
is  about  to  swarm. 

But  the  mating  queen  cares  not  for  the 
alarm  of  her  subjects,  she  has  more  important 
business  on  hand  this  morning. 

Up,  up  she  soars  in  a  graceful  spiral, 
searching  the  upper  air  for  her  mate.  As 
every  hive  contains  several  hundred  drones 
who  were  hatched  for  this  express  purpose 
and  for  this  alone,  the  queen  is  usually  suc- 
cessful the  first  morning  of  her  quest. 

In  the  one-hundredth  part  of  a  second, 
while  flying  like  bullets,  the  virgin  queen  and 
her  mate  make  possible  the  laying  of  from  five 
hundred  to  seven  hundred  thousand  fertile 
eggs  which  may  produce  in  time  two  or  three 
dozen  new  hives  of  honey  gatherers. 

But  the  poor  drone  forfeits  his  life  in  the 
act.  His  generative  organs  are  torn  from 
his  body  and  carried  back  by  the  queen  to  the 
hive,  while  the  drone  flutters  to  earth  and  dies 
having  served  his  end  in  the  economy  of 
nature. 

After  the  mating  season  is  past  the  drones 


122       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

are  either  driven  from  the  hive,  or  killed,  so 
that  it  shall  contain  only  the  queen  and  her 
workers. 

Each  hive  of  bees  that  is  carrying  its  full 
complement  of  individuals  contains  the  fol- 
lowing: 

First  and  foremost  there  is  the  queen,  the 
gentle  ruler  of  this  wonderful  kingdom,  capa- 
ble of  laying  from  two  to  three  thousand  eggs 
a  day  in  the  laying  season,  and  upon  whose 
fertility  the  life  of  the  hive  depends.  But 
she  is  not  the  only  egg  layer  in  the  hive,  for 
the  workers  are  females  as  well,  some  of  them 
capable  of  laying  eggs,  but  the  great  differ- 
ence between  the  eggs  of  these  two  egg-layers 
is  that  the  queen's  eggs  may  hatch  queens, 
workers  or  drones,  while  the  eggs  of  the 
worker  will  only  hatch  drones. 

The  drones  are  of  course  the  males,  whose 
only  excuse  for  living  is  to  fertilize  the 
queen. 

They  never  gather  honey,  and  feed  greedily 
at  the  store  inside  the  hive.  But  their  day  is 
only  a  short  one,  although  they  live  upon  the 


The  Busy  Bee  123 

sweets  of  the  land,  without  having  to  toil  for 
it  while  they  exist. 

Briefly  considered  the  inner  life  of  the  hive 
is  as  follows: 

All  through  the  cold  months,  from  late  in 
November  up  to  nearly  the  first  of  May  the 
hive  is  dormant.  During  this  time  its  mem- 
bers, which  are  now  all  workers,  hang  in  a 
large  conical  cluster  in  the  hive.  But  there 
is  a  constant  movement  of  the  individuals  in 
the  cluster,  which  keeps  it  warm. 

From  time  to  time  they  feed  upon  the 
honey  that  has  been  stored  up  for  that  pur- 
pose, but  they  are  not  as  hungry  as  they  would 
be  if  more  active.  If  the  winter  supply  of 
honey  runs  low,  the  bee-keeper  feeds  them 
upon  sugar  melted  to  a  thin  syrup. 

On  an  exceptionally  warm  day  in  April  the 
swarm  begins  to  warm  up,  and  as  so6n  as  any 
of  the  earliest  wild  flowers  blossom  the  bees 
are  on  hand  to  take  toll. 

So  it  will  be  seen  they  are  no  laggards  and 
they  tread  very  close  upon  the  heels  of  the 
tardy  spring. 


124       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

I  do  not  think  any  one  knows  just  the 
chemistry  of  wax  making.  It,  of  course, 
comes  from  plants  and  flowers,  but  just  what 
ones,  and  just  how  it  is  prepared  only  the 
reticent  bee  knows. 

As  soon  as  the  honey  flow  begins  in  the 
spring  the  colony  set  to  work  to  draw  out 
the  cells  in  which  to  store  the  golden  nectar. 
Soon  in  each  of  the  little  sections  which  are 
made  to  hold  a  pound  of  honey,  a  wax  curtain 
is  started  beginning  at  the  top  and  working 
down.  On  each  side  of  this  curtain  are 
plainly  stamped  the  hexagonal  cells  which, 
when  they  have  been  drawn  out  laterally,  will 
be  the  fully  developed  cells.  It  is  a  marvel 
of  workmanship  this  golden  cellular  mass, 
each  cell  symmetrical  and  nicely  sealed.  But 
each  honey  gatherer  has  a  tri-square  on  the 
end  of  his  nose,  his  proboscis  being  triangular, 
and  six  of  these  triangles  placed  side  by  side, 
and  point  to  point  give  him  the  perfect 
hexagon.  This  cell  when  completed  is  about 
three-sixteenths  of  an  inch  in  diameter  and 
about  three-quarters  of  an  inch  deep. 


The  Busy  Bee  125 

It  is  a  wonderful  sight  to  peep  into  the 
observation  hive  when  the  honey  flow  is  at 
its  height,  and  see  these  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands  of  industrious  little  folks  coming 
and  going,  swarming  in  and  out  from  the 
partly  filled  cells,  each  upon  his  mission  of 
good  to  man. 

Upon  particularly  hot  days  if  you  put 
your  hand  close  to  the  hive  you  can  some- 
times feel  a  cold  current  of  air  not  strong 
but  very  perceptible. 

Inside  a  hundred  cold  air  fans  are  going, 
keeping  the  temperature  of  the  hive  at  a 
normal  pitch  and  also  thickening  the  honey. 
This  is  done  by  the  wings  which  will  fan  away 
ceaselessly  for  hours. 

The  hive  is  always  kept  scrupulously  clean, 
for  the  honey-makers  appreciate  the  fact  that 
any  foreign  substance  would  taint  the  honey. 

Each  spring  the  hive  is  carefully  cleaned 
and  all  small  cracks  are  sealed  up  with  wax, 
so  that  it  is  as  nearly  impervious  to  moisture 
and  dust  as  possible. 

Sometimes  when  the  honey  flow  is  heavy 


126       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

the  bee-keeper  places  a  hive  upon  the  scales, 
and  it  occasionally  registers  five  or  six  pounds 
in  a  single  day,  but  this  is  much  above  the 
average. 

There  are  many  kinds  of  honey,  varying 
according  to  the  flora  of  the  vicinity  in  which 
the  bees  are  kept.  Goldenrod,  basswood, 
white  clover  and  buckwheat  are  among  the 
best  known.  Alfalfa  is  also  a  great  honey 
plant,  and  the  flow  from  this  source  is  great 
and  bee-keeping  in  the  alfalfa  country  is  most 
lucrative. 

There  is  no  subject  in  the  entire  range  of 
natural  history  more  fascinating  than  that  of 
bee  study  with  the  possible  exception  of  the 
ants,  who  are  about  as  much  of  a  mystery  to 
man  as  are  the  bees. 

It  is  a  biting  satire  upon  the  wisdom  and 
ingenuity  of  men,  that  long  before  God 
placed  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  garden  of  Eden 
the  bees  and  the  ants  had  perfected  man's 
two  principal  forms  of  government,  upon 
which  he  is  still  laboring,  namely,  the  kingdom 
and  the  republic. 


The  Busy  Bee  127 

One  cannot  study  either  the  ant-hill  or  the 
beehive  for  long  and  keep  his  conceit  and 
self-confidence,  as  the  particular  capstone  of 
creation,  and  the  impersonation  of  all  wisdom. 

Who  taught  the  bees  the  art  of  govern- 
ment, which  they  possess  to  such  a  marked 
degree?  Who  gave  them  their  moral  code, 
and  their  nice  distinction  between  the  fit  and 
the  unfit?  Who  told  them  that  the  heart  of 
the  rose  and  the  lily  were  sweet,  and  that  the 
sweet  could  be  gathered  upon  that  subtle 
tongue?  Who  taught  them  to  predigest  this 
food  and  to  prepare  it  so  nicely  for  man? 
How  and  where  did  they  learn  that  half  of  the 
year  was  biting  cold  and  that  the  flowers  were 
all  asleep  for  many  months?  Who  told  them 
that  they  must  provide  for  this  lapse  hi  the 
bounty  of  nature? 

What  governs  the  instinct  of  swarming? 
Which  are  the  master  minds  who  lead  the  way 
to  the  new  bee  tree?  Where  in  that  small 
brain  is  located  the  sense  of  direction,  that 
will  lead  the  little  wanderers  as  straight  home 
as  a  shaft  of  light  would  travel?  Why  do  not 


128       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

the  bees  who  stay  in  the  hive  swarm,  and  those 
who  swarm  stay  at  home? 

These  and  a  thousand  others  are  the  queries 
that  daily  and  hourly  confront  the  keeper  of 
bees,  and  he  has  never  yet  satisfactorily  an- 
swered any  of  them. 


CHAPTER  VI 
DOWNSTREAM  IN  A  CANOE 


CHAPTER  VI 

Downstream  in  a  Canoe 

ALL  my  life  I  had  dreamed  of  the  wilder- 
ness beyond  the  pale  of  civilization,  the 
home  of  the  bear  and  the  moose,  the  deer  and 
the  beaver,  and  wondered  vainly  if  I  would 
ever  be  fortunate  enough  to  visit  this  wonder- 
land, the  "  Big  Woods." 

The  little  brook  in  the  meadow  my  fancy 
had  transformed  into  a  wonderful  stream  in 
the  Maine  woods,  and  going  for  the  cows  had 
been  translated  into  "  moose  calling  "  by  the 
same  magic. 

But  now  my  dreams  had  all  come  true. 
I  no  longer  had  to  play  that  the  meadow 
brook  was  a  wilderness  stream,  for  such  a 
river  was  at  the  very  moment  slipping  beneath 
the  keel  of  our  canoe,  and  as  for  moose  call- 
ing, why  the  guide  the  evening  before  had 
fashioned  a  birch  bark  horn  that  he  said  would 


132       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

call  all  the  bull  moose  in  the  State  of  Maine 
•« 

right  into  our  very  camp. 

It  was  twilight  of  a  wonderful  day,  late  in 
October.  The  funeral  pyres  of  leaf  and  frond 
blazed  high  upon  the  hilltops,  and  glowed 
with  rich  deep  red,  low  down  in  the  quiet 
valley.  Along  all  the  smaller  watercourses 
the  sumac  and  soft  maple  glowed,  while  the 
bright  berries  of  the  mountain  ash  occasion- 
ally showed  among  the  duller  reds. 

A  little  later  all  this  brilliant  color  would 
fade.  The  leaves  would  first  turn  to  yellows 
and  browns,  then  to  grays,  and  finally  they 
would  return  to  dust,  making  way  for  the 
new  buds. 

All  day  long  we  had  been  drifting  down 
the  swift  current  of  a  wonderful  stream  in 
northern  Maine.  Perhaps  this  stream  was 
no  more  wonderful  than  a  thousand  others 
throughout  the  world,  but  it  seemed  wonder- 
ful to  me,  for  I  was  going  with  it  on  its  im- 
petuous errand,  and  I  fell  into  all  its  moods. 
When  it  ran  swift  and  turbulent,  my  own 
blood  pulsed  more  freely.  When  it  was  deep 


Downstream  in  a  Canoe  133 

and  placid,  my  own  mood  became  contempla- 
tive. How  often  I  thought,  during  that  cruise, 
of  the  passage  of  the  "  living  waters."  It 
seemed  to  me  that  all  waters  that  foamed  and 
gleamed,  bubbled  and  gurgled,  roared  and 
leapt,  were  living. 

That  noon  we  had  stopped  at  the  mouth  of 
a  stream,  clear  as  crystal,  and  as  cold  as  ice. 
I  knew  the  moment  I  saw  this  pure  little 
brook  that  it  contained  trout.  The  trout  is 
in  some  ways  a  very  particular  fish,  and  he  is 
especially  fussy  about  his  abode. 

A  trout  cannot  tolerate  muddy,  sluggish 
water.  The  brook  that  he  inhabits  must  leap 
and  sparkle.  The  trout  is  a  leaping,  spark- 
ling fish,  and  his  stream  must  match  his  own 
character.  There  must  be  no  moss  on  the 
stones  in  his  brook,  and  no  frog  spittle. 

So  the  little  brook  being  limpid  and  pure 
had  provided  our  dinner  in  the  form  of  a 
dozen  handsome  trout.  After  the  fish  were 
dressed,  a  thin  strip  of  pork  had  been  put 
inside  each,  and  then  they  had  been  put  in 
the  ashes. 


134       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

There  were  only  two  occupants  of  the  light 
canoe  that  felt  the  slightest  stroke  of  the 
paddle  so  quickly.  That  day,  two  was  com- 
pany, and  I  am  afraid  that  three  would  have 
been  a  crowd.  The  guide  merely  watched 
the  current  and  the  nose  of  the  canoe,  occa- 
sionally dipping  the  paddle  into  the  water 
to  steady  her,  or  to  change  her  course,  In 
long  stretches  of  quiet,  deep  water,  he  was 
obliged  to  paddle,  but  for  most  of  the  way, 
Nature  was  working  for  us,  and  that  mystic 
something  that  was  calling  to  the  waters  was 
speeding  our  canoe  swiftly  downstream. 

There  were  plenty  of  sights  and  sounds  in 
this  Maine  wilderness  to  keep  one  watching 
and  guessing.  Little  birds  peeped  curiously 
at  us  from  the  thickets,  and  many  an  empty 
nest,  that  had  been  cunningly  hidden  months 
before,  now  showed  plainly  as  the  green 
mantle  that  had  shielded  it  became  more 
transparent.  The  great  fish-hawk  occasion- 
ally soared  majestically  by,  or  stooped  to  the 
stream  and  picked  up  a  chub,  almost  under 
our  noses.  The  kingfisher  rattled  and  chat- 


Downstream  in  a  Canoe  135 

tered  and  clattered,  whenever  we  came  upon 
him,  and  made  it  quite  plain  to  us  that  we 
had  invaded  his  domain.  The  bittern  uttered 
his  strange  cry,  and  then  flopped  slowly  away. 
Crows  screamed  at  us  from  the  treetops,  and 
the  jay  squalled  derisively,  and  then  flew 
away  to  tell  all  the  dwellers  in  the  forest  that 
a  strange  fish  was  swimming  the  stream,  and 
that  the  fearful  creature,  man,  had  something 
to  do  with  it,  so  the  whole  affair  was  to  be 
shunned. 

That  noisy,  gleeful  imp,  the  red  squirrel, 
also  scolded  and  barked,  whenever  we  went 
ashore,  and  he  did  not  always  let  us  pass 
unchallenged,  when  we  kept  to  the  water. 
Trout  leaped  in  the  deep  pools  at  dusk  and 
dawn,  and  we  always  sought  to  take  some 
for  breakfast  or  supper.  But  there  were 
other  fishermen  besides  ourselves.  Besides 
the  kingfisher  and  the  fish-hawk,  the  otter  and 
the  mink  also  took  fish,  while  Bruin,  clumsy 
as  he  seems,  makes  many  a  good  meal  upon 
trout. 

We  held  the  canoe  anchored  to  the  shore, 


136       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

by  some  bushes,  for  an  hour  one  twilight, 
while  we  watched  Bruin  fishing.  He  took 
his  fish  just  as  a  raccoon  would,  crouching 
above  the  pool,  with  his  paw  in  readiness,  until 
some  luckless  trout  swam  to  the  surface  for  a 
fly  or  miller.  The  stroke  was  so  quick  that 
we  did  not  see  it,  but  we  did  see  the  trout  that 
went  spinning  into  the  bushes,  and  we  also 
saw  the  "  smile  "  on  the  bear's  face,  as  he 
lumbered  off  with  his  prize.  The  guide  told 
me  that  many  of  the  big  cats  also  fish  in  the 
same  manner. 


CHAPTER  VII 
JACKING    AND    MOOSE-CALLING 


CHAPTER  VII 

Jacking   and   Moose-calling 

THERE  is  a  strange  fascination  to  most  wild 
animals  in  the  gleam  of  firelight,  especially 
at  night.  Nearly  all  of  them  fear  the  bright 
mysterious  something,  that  leaps  and  dances, 
flickers  and  fades  so  magically. 

Most  wild  creatures  are  of  two  minds,  half 
fearful  and  half  fascinated,  and  love  to  linger 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  light,  where  they  can 
see  and  not  be  seen. 

Probably  the  instinctive  fear  of  fire  that 
wild  animals  have  springs  from  their  sad  ex- 
periences with  forest  fires.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  they  fear  this  power  which  they  cannot 
understand,  this  demon  that  will,  in  a  few 
fearful  hours,  lay  waste  their  deep  fastnesses, 
turning  cool  sweet  shade  into  an  inferno,  and 
the  sweet  air  into  a  stifling,  choking,  stran- 
gling nightmare,  from  which  so  many  of  them 


140       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

find  it  impossible  to  escape.      No  sight  is 

•* 

more  majestic  or  terrible  than  that  of  a  forest 
fire,  especially  when  the  winds  fan  the  flames, 
which  leap  from  treetop  to  treetop,  crowning 
the  forest  with  a  wreath  of  brass,  while  its 
denizens  flee  to  lakes  and  streams  for  shelter, 
some  going  slowly,  but  others  on  the  wings 
of  the  wind. 

The  part  that  fire  has  played  in  the  rela- 
tions of  man  and  beast  is  most  important. 
Many  an  unfortunate  traveller  has  defended 
himself  effectually  from  wolves,  with  a  few 
bright  flames,  when  powder  and  ball  have 
failed. 

One  evening  after  supper,  we  lighted  our 
jack,  and  pushed  off  in  a  canoe  to  try  what 
magic  there  was  in  fire. 

The  night  was  wonderfully  still,  just  as  it 
frequently  is  in  autumn,  when  the  constella- 
tions are  bright,  and  the  Hunter's  Moon  is  at 
its  full.  There  were  plenty  of  night  sounds, 
such  as  the  unearthly  laughing  of  a  loon,  or 
the  hooting  of  an  owl,  but  when  the  wilder- 
ness had  again  lapsed  into  silence,  it  seemed 


Jacking  and  Moose-calling         141 

even  stiller  for  the  night  voices  that  had 
spoken. 

For  half  an  hour,  we  drifted  silently  down- 
stream seeing  and  hearing  small  creatures  that 
were  attracted  by  our  jack.  Presently  there 
was  a  slight  sound  in  the  underbrush,  which 
seemed  to  keep  just  so  far  from  the  stream, 
and  to  be  following  parallel  with  our  course. 
Once,  when  a  dry  twig  snapped  with  a  sharp 
report,  the  guide  whispered,  "  deer."  A  twig 
never  crunches  under  the  sharp,  cutting  hoof 
of  a  deer,  but  always  pops.  After  the  sounds 
in  the  bushes  had  followed  parallel  to  the 
stream  for  a  few  rods,  they  became  plainer,  as 
though  the  forest  stranger  was  overcoming  his 
timidity,  or  getting  more  curious  about  us. 
Just  ahead  was  a  sharp  turn  in  the  stream, 
and  a  point  that  ran  out  into  the  water.  Here 
the  guide  worked  the  boat  carefully  in  to- 
wards the  shore,  where  he  held  it  stationary, 
by  thrusting  a  paddle  into  the  sand.  There 
we  waited  and  listened,  my  nerves  tingling 
with  excitement.  Then  presently  the  sounds 
of  breaking  twigs,  and  the  swish  of  parting 


142       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

bushes  drew  nearer,  and  a  dark  form  crossed 
a  patch  of  moonlight  about  fifty  feet  away. 
A  second  later  it  came  out  into  the  outer  edge 
of  light  cast  by  the  jack,  and  stood  erect  and 
alert.  There  was  no  mistaking  that  proud 
figure,  with  its  graceful  outline,  and  slim, 
arching  neck,  even  if  there  had  not  been  a 
magnificent  crown  of  horns,  probably  a  five 
pointer,  and  two  large  luminous  eyes,  that 
were  wide  with  fear  and  wonder.  A  moment 
later  a  second  head  was  thrust  into  the  aureole 
of  light,  and  a  doe,  also  wide-eyed  and  won- 
dering, stood  beside  her  lord,  and  gazed  fear- 
fully, yet  fascinated  at  this  strange  will-o'- 
the-wisp,  that  danced  on  the  river.  It  was  as 
pretty  a  wilderness  picture  as  ever  delighted 
the  eye  of  woodsman,  but  it  was  all  too  brief, 
for  a  telltale  breath  of  wind  came  dancing 
over  the  stream  and  blew  our  hot  body  scent 
full  in  their  distended,  quivering  nostrils. 
There  was  a  loud  snort,  a  whistle,  and  the 
pair  went  crashing  through  the  woods,  just 
as  though  it  had  been  daylight  instead  of 
semi-darkness,  and  the  path  had  been  smooth, 


IT  WAS  AS  PRETTY  A  WILDERNESS  PICTURE  AS  EVER 
DELIGHTED  THE  EYES  OF  A  WOODSMAN 


Jacking  and  Moose-calling         143 

instead  of  laid  with  a  score  of  pitfalls  and 
every  step  filled  with  neckbr caking  obstacles. 

We  had  had  our  fun  for  that  night,  so 
paddled  leisurely  back  to  camp,  well  pleased 
with  the  experience. 

Another  allurement  that  we  tried,  which 
was  equally  interesting,  was  moose-calling. 
For  this,  my  companion  first  made  a  moose 
call.  This  was  done  by  stripping  a  yellow 
birch  of  a  section  of  its  bark,  about  three  feet 
long,  which  was  rolled  into  a  rude  megaphone. 

This  call  was  also  used  on  a  moonlight 
night,  when  the  witchery  of  the  Hunter's 
Moon  was  on  the  forest,  and  we  went  in  the 
canoe,  as  before.  This  is  a  favorite  manner 
of  stalking  game,  as  one  can  go  so  much 
stiller  than  on  foot.  It  must  not  be  imagined 
that  we  had  any  response  to  our  entreaties 
the  first  night  or  the  second.  In  fact,  it  was 
nearly  a  week  before  our  patience  was  re- 
warded. 

We  were  lying  in  a  little  cove,  which  was 
an  arm  of  a  wonderful  forest  lake.  The 
canoe  was  held  stationary  by  a  paddle  that 


144       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

was  thrust  in  the  mud.  My  companion 
rested  the  larger  end  of  the  moose  call  on  the 
bow  of  the  canoe,  took  a  deep  breath,  puffed 
out  his  cheek  like  the  unfortunate  man  who 
plays  the  bass  tuba  in  the  band,  and  a  deep 
chested  bellow  echoed  across  the  lake.  First, 
it  was  low  keyed  and  uncertain,  like  the  rum- 
ble of  distant  thunder,  but  as  the  sound  rose 
in  pitch  it  swelled  in  volume,  filling  the  forest 
and  echoing  along  the  lake.  Finally,  it  died 
away  in  an  uncertain  wail,  like  the  bellow  of  a 
cow  who  is  calling  for  the  calf  that  the  man  in 
the  blue  frock  has  just  loaded  into  the  wagon 
and  driven  away  with. 

We  waited  and  listened,  but  only  the  cries 
of  night  birds  reached  our  ears.  Again  the 
guide  flung  this  deep  chested  bellow,  that  I 
do  not  see  how  human  lungs  can  produce, 
across  the  lake,  and  we  waited  and  listened. 
This  time  it  was  answered,  faint  and  far,  but 
still  it  was  an  answering  call,  and  that  was 
more  than  we  had  heard  before. 

Again  the  guide  called,  this  time  putting 
more  of  defiance  than  of  entreaty  into  the 


Jacking  and  Moose-calling       .145 

sound.  This,  too,  was  answered,  and  the  an- 
swering call  was  defiant  as  well.  Then  there 
was  silence  for  two  or  three  minutes,  while 
we  waited  for  our  rival  to  make  the  next  move. 
Soon  we  were  rewarded  for  our  patience  by 
a  third  call,  this  time  much  plainer. 

"  He's  coming  round  the  lake,"  whispered 
the  guide,  and  he  sent  back  a  defiant  bellow. 
Then  there  was  silence  again  while  the  night 
winds  sighed  in  the  treetops,  and  the  ripples 
on  the  water  softly  licked  the  sides  of  the 
canoe,  and  murmured  on  the  pebbly  beach. 

In  the  course  of  five  minutes,  we  could  hear 
him  coming,  thrashing  the  bushes  with  his 
antlers,  and  occasionally  stopping  as  though 
uncertain. 

Each  time  his  thundering  challenge  rolled 
across  the  lake  we  responded  with  an  equally 
defiant  bellow.  At  last  we  could  hear  him 
thrashing  the  bushes  with  his  antlers,  and  the 
guide  reached  over  with  a  paddle  and 
thrashed  with  the  paddle  upon  some  bushes 
that  grew  along  the  shore.  Then  he  blew  a 
short,  defiant  bellow,  that  plainly  said,  "  Come 


146       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

on,  my  fine  fellow,  and  I  will  give  you  a  ter- 
rible thrashing." 

This  was  more  than  the  uncertain  bull  could 
stand.  He  had  been  challenged,  his  courage 
had  been  questioned,  his  reputation  was  at 
stake,  so  with  a  short  bellow  of  rage,  and  a 
snort  of  defiance,  he  tore  through  the  under- 
brush, bending  down  small  saplings  as  he 
came. 

We  could  now  plainly  hear  his  hoofs  clack, 
as  he  came,  like  huge  castanets.  Then  he 
burst  out  into  the  open,  his  head  erect,  his 
nostrils  distended,  his  eyes  blazing,  his  whole 
attitude  belligerent. 

He  was  a  magnificent  picture  as  he  stood 
there  in  the  full  moonlight,  clearly  outlined 
against  the  forest.  The  broad  spread  of  his 
antlers,  his  massive  head,  his  deep  chest,  and 
his  great  height,  all  proclaimed  him  a  king. 
The  rightful  king  of  the  forest  whose  denizens 
should  honor  and  whom  man  should  admire 
as  one  of  God's  splendid  creatures. 

Whether  he  would  have  come  still  nearer 
and  finally  either  scented  or  actually  seen 


Jacking  and  Moose-calling        147 

us,  I  do  not  know.  These  striking  scenes  in 
the  woods  are  usually  fleeting,  seen  for  a  few 
seconds  and  then  they  vanish  and  leave  one 
wondering  whether  his  senses  have  not  played 
him  false  after  all.  He  had  not  stood  in  full 
view  five  seconds  when  the  telltale,  warning 
cry  of  a  loon  echoed  across  the  lake  and  with 
a  snort  of  alarm  he  thundered  into  the  depths 
from  which  he  came  and  we  saw  him  no  more, 
although  we  could  hear  his  noisy  progress 
through  the  deep  woods  for  several  minutes. 
When  the  last  sound  of  breaking  underbrush 
had  ceased  we  paddled  back  to  camp,  well 
pleased  with  the  night's  moose  calling. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
IN  BEAVER-LAND 


CHAPTER  VIII 
In  Beaver-Land 

ONE  afternoon,  when  the  splendor  of  the 
autumnal  forest  had  begun  to  pale,  and  grays 
and  browns  had  partially  taken  the  place  of 
saffron  and  gold  and  flaming  red,  we  floated 
down  into  the  pleasant  valley  that  I  call 
beaver-land. 

For  three  or  four  miles  above  the  first  of 
the  chain  of  five  lakes,  there  were  plenty  of 
signs  that  beaver  dwelt  not  far  distant.  The 
first  intimation  that  we  had  of  being  near  the 
colony,  was  the  stumps  of  hundreds  of  poplars 
and  maples.  These  stumps  were  conical  in 
shape  and  where  the  tree  had  not  yet  quite 
succumbed  to  these  active  rodents,  it  was 
shaped  like  an  hour-glass.  The  largest  of 


152       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

these  trees  were  two  or  two  and  a  half  feet  in 
diameter,  but  the  guide  told  me  that  he  had 
occasionally  seen  trees  three  or  four  feet  in 
diameter  that  had  fallen  beneath  the  teeth  of 
these  ambitious  woodsmen. 

Further  on  down  the  valley  we  occasionally 
saw  a  log  that  had  lodged  against  some  root 
or  projection  in  the  bank.  This  log  was  on 
its  way  to  the  dam  perhaps,  where  it  would 
be  worked  into  that  structure,  or  maybe  it 
was  intended  for  food  and  would  be  stored 
under  the  ice,  for  use  during  the  long  winter. 

As  we  drifted  further  and  further  into 
beaver-land,  the  wonder  of  it  all  grew  upon 
me.  It  did  not  seem  so  wonderful  that  a 
beaver  should  fell  one  tree,  or  half  a  dozen, 
but  when  I  saw  acres  of  timber  nearly 
stripped  by  these  wonderful  animals  my  re- 
spect for  all  four-footed  creatures  grew. 

The  five  lakes  that  comprised  beaver-land 
were  like  a  series  of  locks  in  a  canal,  each 
lake  setting  back  to  the  dam  of  the  one  above. 
My  companion  told  me  that  beaver  dams  were 
usually  in  pairs  one  above  the  other.  He 


In  Beaver-Land  153 

said  it  was  hard  to  tell  why  the  beaver  built  in 
this  way,  but  his  own  theory  was  that  the 
wise  builder  kept  the  upper  lake  as  a  reservoir, 
for  he  always  built  his  house  in  the  lower  lake, 
with  this  second  lake  at  his  command,  if  the 
first  dam  sprung  a-leak  and  the  water  fell  so 
as  to  expose  the  beaver  houses  to  attack,  the 
beaver  could  repair  the  leak  in  the  dam,  and 
immediately  fill  the  lower  lake  from  the 
upper,  without  waiting  for  it  to  fill  in  the 
natural  way.  If  this  is  the  real  secret  for 
these  double  lakes,  it  looks  very  much  as 
though  the  beavers  were  capable  of  planning 
on  their  own  account.  When  we  saw  cords 
and  cords  of  poplar  and  maple  wood,  cut  into 
pieces  about  three  feet  in  length  piled  up  in 
front  of  each  dam,  we  were  again  forced  to 
believe  that  the  beaver  is  a  planner. 

Some  of  the  beaver  houses  which  were  old 
were  so  overgrown  with  water  grasses  that 
they  looked  like  small  hillocks  in  the  lake, 
while  others  were  smooth  and  symmetrical,  as 
though  they  were  fresh  from  the  mason's 
trowel.  Another  thing  that  looked  much  as 


154       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

though  the  beaver  could  plan  for  himself, 
were  certain  breakwaters  running  out  into  the 
stream  above  the  upper  lake.  They  were  al- 
ternated, and  the  guide  said  they  were  to  break 
the  force  of  the  ice  during  the  high  water  in 
springtime  and  to  keep  it  from  rushing  down 
upon  the  dams  and  demolishing  them.  An* 
other  clever  piece  of  work  in  beaver-land  is  a 
channel  that  is  sometimes  cut  around  the  end 
of  a  dam,  so  that  the  water  may  flow  off  in  a 
waste-water,  and  not  wash  the  dam  by  its  con- 
tinual flow. 

The  beavers  caused  us  four  hard  portages 
around  their  dams  that  day,  but  by  twilight 
we  camped  upon  the  lower  of  the  five  lakes 
close  to  the  dam.  The  same  evening  after  we 
had  eaten  our  supper  of  broiled  fish,  biscuit 
and  coffee,  we  drew  our  canoe  up  on  the  bank 
of  the  lake  and  prepared  to  watch  the  opera- 
tion of  dam  building,  which,  from  the  newly 
cut  logs  and  fresh  mud  that  we  saw  upon  the 
dam,  we  knew  was  going  on. 

We  tried  the  old  ruse  of  displacing  some 
logs  and  sods,  in  hopes  that  the  little  builders 


In  Beaver-Land  155 

would  discover  the  leak  and  come  forth  to  re- 
pair the  damage.  I  felt  quite  mean  when  I 
saw  the  rent  that  we  had  made  in  the  struc- 
ture, and  was  half  inclined  to  repair  the  dam- 
age myself  and  trust  to  luck  to  see  the  beavers 
at  work,  but  I  was  most  desirous  of  seeing  the 
little  builders  on  the  spot  and  so  suffered  the 
water  to  stream  through  the  break. 

We  took  a  commanding  position  in  a  tall 
pine  near  the  dam  from  which  we  could  see 
far  up  the  lake  and  across  the  low  lying  valley 
in  every  direction.  It  was  rather  tedious 
waiting,  holding  on  to  an  uncertain  perch 
forty  or  fifty  feet  up  in  the  pine.  We  soon 
got  cramped  and  stiff,  but  the  game  for  which 
we  were  out  was  an  exciting  one,  and  our  an- 
ticipation helped  while  away  the  two  solid 
hours  that  passed  before  we  saw  much  that  in- 
terested us. 

How  still  it  was  between  the  night  cries 
that  came  to  our  ears  from  the  distant  forest. 
There  was  always  the  low  gurgling  glee  of  the 
water  as  it  slipped  through  the  hole  that  we 
had  made  in  the  dam,  but  when  the  hooting 


156       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

of  an  owl  or  the  barking  of  a  fox  had  died 
away  and  we  had  only  the  soft  sighing  of  the 
wind  in  the  pines,  and  the  murmur  of  the 
water,  the  wilderness  seemed  like  some  en- 
chanted land  upon  which  there  had  been  laid 
a  spell  of  silence,  deep  and  abiding. 

The  heavens  were  so  studded  with  stars 
that  it  seemed  as  though  there  was  not  room 
for  another,  while  the  milky-way  glowed 
white  and  luminous.  The  Hunter's  Moon 
was  at  its  full  and  flooded  the  distant  vistas 
of  the  forest  with  a  light  almost  as  bright  as 
day.  Every  star  in  heaven  and  the  great  lu- 
minous moon  were  reflected  in  the  lake,  which 
shimmered  and  sparkled  almost  phosphores- 
cently.  It  was  a  scene  to  make  one  draw 
long  deep  breaths,  and  the  pulse  to  beat  fast 
and  strong. 

Some  distance  upstream,  probably  a  mile 
away,  we  heard  a  tree  fall  with  a  thundering 
crash,  which  echoed  across  the  lake  again  and 
again.  From  the  sound  we  knew  that  a  tree 
not  less  than  two  feet  had  been  laid  low. 

We  had  concluded  that  the  energies  of  the 


In  Beaver-Land  157 

colony  were  all  employed  in  tree  cutting  for 
that  night  and  were  about  to  descend,  when 
we  noticed  several  short  logs  floating  down  to- 
wards the  dam;  they  seemed  to  be  floating 
much  faster  than  the  current  would  naturally 
carry  them  and  we  were  at  first  unable  to  ac- 
count for  it,  but  when  the  logs  got  nearer  to 
the  dam  we  made  out  the  dark  head  of  a 
beaver  floating  behind  each  log  and  the  rapid- 
ity with  which  the  logs  had  floated  was  ex- 
plained. Each  was  being  pushed  by  an  en- 
ergetic log  driver. 

When  within  about  a  hundred  feet  of  the 
dam  the  beavers  evidently  discovered  the 
damage  that  we  had  done,  for  they  left  their 
logs  and  swam  hurriedly  to  the  break.  One 
climbed  into  the  crevasse  and  tried  to  pull  the 
ends  of  projecting  sticks  together.  All 
seemed  much  excited,  for  they  swam  to  and 
fro,  now  disappearing  under  the  water,  as 
though  they  had  dove  to  the  bottom  to  see  how 
far  down  the  break  extended,  and  then  re- 
appearing in  the  break.  We  thought  we 
counted  half  a  dozen,  but  they  disappeared  so 


158       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

suddenly  and  reappeared  in  such  unexpected 
places  that  we  were  not  sure  of  their  num- 
ber. 

Finally  all  swam  away  upstream  where 
they  were  gone  about  twenty  minutes.  But 
they  soon  returned  pushing  alder  and  willow 
bushes  before  them  in  the  water.  These  they 
stuck  into  the  foundation  of  the  dam,  filling 
the  gap  with  a  row  of  stakes  or  pickets.  So 
far  they  had  set  to  work  just  as  a  farmer 
would  mend  a  brush  fence.  Then  they  went 
away  upstream  again  and  reappeared  in  about 
the  same  time  that  they  had  before.  This 
time  they  brought  more  brush,  which  they 
wove  between  the  stakes,  laterally.  This  was 
evidently  the  backbone,  for  they  soon  brought 
sods,  which  they  floated  in  the  water  just  as 
they  had  the  sticks,  and  laid  them  in  front  of 
the  brush  fence  that  they  had  already  built. 
The  current  carried  the  sods  into  all  the 
crevasses  and  the  flow  of  water  was  lessened 
but  it  was  not  until  they  had  carried  sods  and 
mud  for  an  hour  that  the  break  was  entirely 
filled.  In  a  day  or  two  when  the  mud  and  sod 


In  Beaver-Land  159 

had  dried,  the  repairs  on  the  dam  would  not 
be  noticed. 

Several  times  that  night  we  heard  the  crash 
of  falling  trees  and  as  stray  logs  occasionally 
floated  down  and  lodged  against  the  dam,  we 
concluded  that  quite  a  gang  were  engaged  in 
wood-cutting  further  up  the  lake. 

After  we  had  descended  the  old  pine  and 
returned  to  camp,  the  guide  told  me  many 
interesting  things  about  the  beaver. 

The  beaver  seems  to  be  a  very  social  fellow, 
living  in  communities.  His  family  life  also 
seems  to  be  very  pleasant,  for  sometimes  there 
will  be  fifteen  or  even  twenty  beavers  living 
in  the  very  largest  lodges. 

A  family  always  comprises  the  old  beavers, 
the  babies,  the  yearlings,  and  the  two  year 
olds,  but  when  they  reach  that  age  they  are 
shoved  out  into  the  world  to  make  room  for 
the  new  babies.  But  this  home-leaving  is 
probably  no  hardship  for  them,  for  the  mating 
instinct  is  by  that  time  asserting  itself,  and 
they  seek  out  mates  and  make  homes  for 
themselves. 


160       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

The  dam  building  instinct  of  the  beaver  is 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  instincts  in  the 
animal  kingdom. 

It  enables  its  possessors  to  build  dams  of 
wonderful  symmetry  and  size ;  structures  that 
it  would  seem  impossible  for  such  small  crea- 
tures to  build. 

The  beaver's  dam  is  built  for  protection,  to 
make  a  little  Venice  where  he  shall  be  secure 
from  his  enemies.  Just  as  the  feudal  lords 
of  old  surrounded  their  castles  with  moats,  he 
surrounds  his  lodge  with  a  broad  lake,  so  that 
his  enemies  cannot  get  at  him  as  easily  as  they 
otherwise  would.  The  entrance  to  his  house 
is  always  under  water,  and  to  protect  himself 
against  low  water,  which  would  sometimes  be 
felt  in  a  stream,  he  dams  the  stream,  and 
thus  makes  sure  of  keeping  the  water  above 
his  underground  passage.  The  lake  also 
serves  as  a  place  of  storage  for  the  beaver's 
great  supply  of  wood,  which  is  his  food  in 
winter.  If  it  were  not  for  his  dam,  the 
wood  would  probably  be  swept  down- 
stream, and  the  beaver,  who  is  locked  under 


In  Beaver-Land  161 

the  ice  in  winter,  would  have  to  go  hun- 
gry- 

In  France  the  beavers  are  nearly  all  bank 
beavers,  and  do  not  build  houses.  Probably, 
because  the  streams  are  deep  and  sluggish, 
and  the  water  is  of  a  uniform  depth  for  the 
entire  year,  but  in  America  nearly  all  the 
beavers  are  house-builders.  Once  in  a  while 
a  bank  beaver  is  found  in  this  country.  He 
makes  his  home  in  a  burrow  in  the  bank,  as 
the  otter  does,  but  his  life  is  not  as  well  or- 
dered as  that  of  the  house  beaver. 

The  wood-cutting  habit  of  the  beaver  is  as 
remarkable  as  his  dam -building  instinct. 
When  we  see  trees  three  or  four  feet  in  diam- 
eter laid  low,  by  these  industrious  rodents, 
we  cannot  deny  that  they  have  patience,  and 
pluck. 

In  cutting  down  trees  the  beaver  stands 
upon  his  hind  legs,  balancing  himself  on  his 
broad  flat  tail,  and  nips  a  girdle  about  the 
tree.  He  then  cuts  another  girdle  above  the 
first,  and  pulls  out  the  chip  between.  This 
process  is  repeated  until  the  forest  monarch 


1 62       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

falls.  Usually,  however,  they  confine  them- 
selves to  trees  a  foot  or  less  in  diameter,  as 
these  logs  are  more  easily  handled,  both  in 
dam  building  and  as  food. 

"As  busy  as  a  beaver"  is  a  proverb,  but 
like  many  another  proverb,  it  is  only  partly 
true.  For  two  or  three  months  in  the  year  the 
beaver  is  a  very  busy  fellow,  but  the  rest  of 
the  year,  he  is  one  of  the  laziest  inhabitants  of 
woods  and  waters.  All  through  the  winter, 
from  the  time  that  the  first  thick  ice  locks  him 
under  the  water,  until  it  breaks  up  in  the 
spring,  he  sleeps  in  his  lodge.  When  hungry 
he  nibbles  away  at  his  store  of  bark  and  if  he 
wants  exercise  he  goes  for  a  swim  in  the  lake 
to  keep  up  his  muscle.  Then  when  the  spring 
rains  unlock  the  ice  door  above  him,  and  he 
is  free  again,  the  male  beaver  who  is  over  three 
years  of  age,  goes  on  his  annual  pilgrimage, 
through  lakes  and  streams. 

He  does  not  care  much  where  he  goes,  as 
long  as  he  can  find  plenty  of  water  with  tim- 
ber or  brush  near  by. 

All  through  the  summer  months  he  wan- 


In  Beaver-Land  163 

ders,  living  a  day  or  a  week  in  a  place,  as  the 
humor  seizes  him. 

When  the  first  frost  touches  the  soft  maples 
along  the  waterways,  he  turns  his  nose  home- 
ward. 

Meanwhile  the  female  beavers  have  been 
rearing  the  young,  and  looking  after  the 
yearlings  and  the  two  year  olds. 

Once  the  males  return  to  the  colony  the 
scene  changes  and  from  being  an  indolent 
happy-go-lucky  community  it  becomes  a 
village  of  industry,  for  the  dam  must  be  re- 
paired and  all  the  mud  houses  made  ready  for 
winter.  There  is  also  the  winter  supply  of 
bark  to  cut,  and  in  a  large  colony  this  means 
cords. 

Then  on  starlight  nights  when  the  moon  is 
at  its  full,  and  the  autumn  wind  whispers  in 
the  treetops,  you  will  hear  the  trees  falling 
with  a  crash,  that  echoes  away  and  away 
through  the  silent  forest,  and  across  the  peace- 
ful beaver  lake. 

Then  you  will  see  hundreds  and  probably 
thousands  of  small  logs  about  three  feet  in 


164       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

length,  floating  downstream  to  the  lake.  The 
beaver  has  the  same  provident  instinct  as  the 
bee,  who  prods  the  white  clover  and  the 
goldenrod,  bringing  home  their  sweets,  and 
storing  it  up  against  the  time  of  dearth.  Does 
this  not  look  as  though  there  was  a  calendar  in 
the  animal  and  insect  world? 

What  is  more  picturesque  or  pleasing  in  the 
many  happy  surprises  of  the  wilderness  than 
a  beaver  dam,  holding  in  its  strong  arm  a 
beautiful  woodland  lake? 

It  does  not  look  like  a  thing  that  was  made 
by  hands,  or  teeth  or  feet  either,  for  that  mat- 
ter, but  just  as  though  it  grew  here,  and  was  a 
part  of  nature.  The  ends  of  the  logs  are  so 
ragged,  and  the  whole  structure  is  so  over- 
grown with  lichens  and  moss,  and  perhaps 
willows  or  alders  that  it  seems  part  and  parcel 
of  nature's  handiwork. 

But  as  you  fall  to  studying  it  and  see  how 
well  it  was  placed,  how  that  great  boulder  was 
made  to  brace  the  dam  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  or  a  tree  made  to  hold  one  end,  or 
how  the  natural  features  of  the  landscape 


In  Beaver-Land  165 

were  made  to  serve  the  beaver's  ends,  you 
wonder  at  his  cunning  and  his  marvelous 
builder's  instinct.  Then  when  you  see  his  de- 
vice for  keeping  the  water  from  wearing  the 
dam  by  constant  overflow,  which  is  nothing 
more  or  less  than  a  waste-water  dug  about 
one  end  of  the  dam,  you  are  still  more  deeply 
impressed  with  his  sagacity. 

The  beaver  might  have  learned  his  house- 
building habit  of  the  Indian,  or  perhaps  the 
Adobe  house  builders,  so  closely  has  he  fol- 
lowed their  plan.  But  he  is  wiser  than  they, 
for  his  front  door  is  always  locked. 

How  can  we  deny  the  wonder  and  the  mys- 
tery of  this  life  in  the  beaver  colony?  The 
village  with  its  sages  and  wise  men,  the  house- 
hold with  its  heads  and  its  babes  and  young- 
sters, the  strong  wall  or  bulwark  built  about 
the  city  for  the  mutual  protection  of  all.  The 
supplies  that  have  been  stored  up  against  the 
time  of  dearth  and  the  ingenious  mind  or  in- 
stinct, if  you  like  the  word  better,  that  meets 
and  overcomes  all  these  adverse  condi- 
tions? 


1 66       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

This  is  the  true ,  test  of  man  or  beast, 
whether  it  be  in  the  wilderness  or  the  city,  to 
meet  and  overcome  adverse  conditions  and  to 
make  the  desert  bloom  like  the  rose. 


CHAPTER  IX 
ONE'S  OWN  BACK  DOOR-YARD 


CHAPTER  IX 

One's  Own  Back  Door-yard 

IT  was  about  ten  o'clock  of  as  dismal  a  Sat- 
urday morning  as  ever  spoiled  a  boy's  fun  by 
raining. 

Old  Ben  and  I  had  planned  a  fishing  trip 
that  would  have  been  memorable  among  all 
the  good  times  we  had  enjoyed  together,  but 
it  had  rained  so  hard  that  my  mother  had 
vetoed  our  going. 

The  lunch  basket  was  packed,  the  bait  dug, 
and  everything  was  in  readiness  except  the 
weather. 

But  how  it  did  rain!  Great  gusts  of  wind 
drove  the  rain  before  it  in  blinding  sheets,  and 
small  rivulets  ran  in  the  road,  and  in  the  walk. 

If  it  had  only  been  just  a  drizzle  we  would 
not  have  minded.  The  fishing  would  have 


170       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

been  all  the  better,  but  this  deluge  put  all 
thoughts  of  our  long  planned  trip  out  of 
mind. 

I  sat  on  the  back  porch  bewailing  my  hard 
luck  and  watching  the  downpour.  There 
was  some  satisfaction  in  that,  even  if  the 
storm  had  spoiled  my  fun. 

It  was  a  regular  duck's  day,  and  no  mis- 
take. No  creature  that  was  not  oiled  from 
head  to  foot  could  stand  such  a  drenching  as 
this. 

If  I  had  been  a  girl,  I  might  have  had  the 
consolation  of  crying,  but  as  I  was  a  boy  and 
expected  to  celebrate  my  eleventh  birthday 
soon,  even  that  comfort  was  denied  me. 

Presently  a  tall,  dark  figure  loomed  up 
through  the  mist,  coming  down  the  pathway 
leading  across  the  mowing  at  the  back  of  the 
house.  At  first  I  thought  I  was  mistaken, 
for  sometimes  I  could  see  it,  and  then  a  vio- 
lent gust  of  wind  and  rain  would  blot  it  out, 
but  soon  it  drew  nearer,  and  I  made  out  old 
Ben,  coming  at  his  accustomed  long  stride. 
In  another  minute  he  was  hurrying  up  the 


One's  Own  Back  Door-yard       171 

steps  of  the  back  porch,  the  rain  fairly  stream- 
ing down  his  long  rubber  coat. 

He  was  laughing  and  chuckling  and  looked 
the  very  picture  of  merriment. 

"  Isn't  it  an  awful  shame,  Ben? "  I  began. 
"  This  nasty  old  rain  has  spoiled  all  our  fun, 
and  now  we  can't  take  the  trip  to  the  pond." 

"  Fiddlesticks,  boy.  Yes,  we  can.  Why, 
I  expect  to  go  next  Saturday.  You  needn't 
go  along  unless  you  want  to,  but  I  propose  to 
go." 

"  I  almost  know  it  will  rain  and  be  another 
horrid  day  just  like  this  one,"  I  said.  "  Isn't 
it  an  awful  shame  that  it  rains  to-day,  Ben? " 

"  Well,  no,  Harry,  I  can't  positively  say 
that  it  is,  if  you  want  me  to  tell  the  '  honest- 
Injun-truth.'  You  see  there  are  a  great 
many  people  in  the  world  and  it  is  awful  hard 
for  God  to  suit  them  all  at  the  same  time. 
The  poor  farmers,  who  raise  all  the  good 
things  for  us  to  eat,  have  been  wishing  for 
rain  for  weeks.  Everything  was  gettin'  shriv- 
eled up;  crops  were  all  spilin'.  If  this  state 
of  affairs  had  kept  up  much  longer  why  we 


172       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

wouldn't  had  any  crops  at  all.  All  the  trees 
and  flowers  looked  pathetic  and  droopin',  just 
as  though  they  had  lost  their  best  friend,  and 
really  they  had. 

"  So  you  see  there  are  lots  of  people  and 
things  to  consider.  Maybe,  this  morning, 
when  the  sun  came  up,  God  saw  how  shriveled 
things  were,  and  how  discouraged  the  farmers 
all  looked,  and  He  said  to  Himself,  *  I  guess 
I  had  better  have  a  rain  to-day ;  a  good  hard 
one,  and  see  if  it  won't  freshen  things  up  a 
bit.'  Then  maybe  He  said,  '  There  are  old 
Ben  and  Harry,  they  want  to  go  to  the  pond 
fishing  to-day.  Now,  if  it  rains,  they  can't 
go.  What  shall  I  do? ' 

"  Don't  you  see,  Harry,  that  there  were 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  farmers  who 
wanted  it  to  rain  and  only  you  and  I  who 
didn't,  so  God  would  have  to  suit  the  greater 
number." 

Ben's  queer  picture  of  God  trying  to  suit 
all  the  people  at  once  made  me  smile,  even 
though  I  was  greatly  disappointed.  He  al- 
ways had  such  a  bright  way  of  looking  at 


One's  Own  Back  Door-yard       173 

things.  No  matter  how  bad  a  thing  was,  old 
Ben  could  always  find  some  good  way  of  ex- 
plaining it,  and  of  getting  sunshine  out  of  it. 

"  You  are  a  funny  fellow  to  always  make 
things  look  good  when  they  are  really  bad," 
I  said.  "  How  do  you  think  all  these  queer 
thoughts?" 

"  Well,  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  patting  me 
affectionately  on  the  head,  "  it  is  this  way.  I 
have  lived  a  long  time  compared  with  you, 
and  a  man  can't  spend  seventy  years  in  this 
beautiful  old  world  without  doing  a  pile  of 
thinking. 

"  It  seems  to  me  the  more  I  consider  how 
wonderfully  the  world  is  made,  how  all  the 
plants  and  animals  are  fed,  and  protected, 
and  how  even  the  smallest  things  are  made  as 
carefully  as  though  they  had  been  mountains, 
when  I  get  to  thinking  about  these  things  it 
makes  me  feel  that  there  is  a  wise  and  won- 
derful power  behind  all.  So  I  know  that  all 
rainy  days  must  be  good  and  the  very  best 
thing  in  their  place.  Now,  I  will  take  off  my 
coat  and  we  will  set  right  down  here  on  the 


174       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

old  back  porch  and  have  the  finest  kind  of  a 
time  seeing  things." ' 

"  Seeing  things ! "  I  gasped  in  astonish- 
ment. Then  the  funny  side  of  the  proposi- 
tion came  over  me  and  I  laughed  aloud. 

"  I  know  you  are  a  great  fellow  to  see 
things,  Ben,"  I  said  at  last,  "  but  what  can  we 
see  from  here?  Are  you  joking?  " 

"  It  is  no  joke  at  all,  Harry,"  replied  my 
friend  seriously,  "  I  mean  every  word  of  it. 
We  will  have  a  fine  time  seeing  things.  I 
never  yet  got  tucked  into  any  corner  in  the 
world  where  I  could  not  see  something  mighty 
interesting. 

"  Now,  Harry,"  he  continued,  seating  him- 
self in  an  old  wooden-bottomed  chair,  and 
tilting  it  back  against  the  wall  for  comfort, 
"  our  field  of  observation  is  the  back  porch 
and  just  a  few  feet  outside.  Now,  what  do 
you  make  of  it? " 

"A  wet  slippery  floor,  some  morning-glory 
vines,  and,  that's  all,  just  a  horrid  place,"  I 
answered,  "  but  it  isn't  quite  as  bad  as  it  was 
before  you  came,  Ben." 


One's  Own  Back  Door-yard       175 

"  Guess  your  woodsman's  specks  are  rather 
dim  this  morning,"  replied  Ben  with  a  merry 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  Perhaps  it  has  rained 
on  them.  Guess  you  will  have  to  rub  them 
up,  boy.  Try  again;  I  can  see  lots  of  inter- 
esting things  besides  those  you  have  men- 
tioned. All  you  have  seen  is  just  the  frame 
to  the  picture.  What  a  sorry  world  this 
would  be  if  people  looked  only  at  the  frames, 
and  let  all  its  beautiful  pictures  go  unno- 
ticed!" 

I  looked  carefully  up  and  down  the  floor 
boards,  peering  into  all  the  cracks,  while  old 
Ben  tried  to  look  away  and  keep  from  laugh- 
ing. 

Finally  I  gave  it  up,  and  returned  to  my 
first  assertion  that  it  was  a  dull,  stupid  place 
with  nothing  interesting  in  it. 

Ben  laughed.  "  Well,  Harry,  suppose  I 
just  set  the  ball  to  rolling.  I  can  see  a  little 
creature  that  can  make  a  morsel  for  you  that 
will  fairly  make  your  mouth  water.  One  of 
the  most  wonderful  little  things  that  God  ever 
made.  It  and  its  kind  know  all  the  secrets  of 


176       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

the  flowers,  and  the  blossoms  yield  up  their 
very  sweetest  nectar  for  them.  Many  of  the 
flowers  and  trees  could  not  bear  fruit  at  all  if 
it  was  not  for  them.  They  live  in  a  kingdom 
and  have  a  wonderful  queen  who  lays  over 
half  a  million  eggs  in  her  short  life  of  a  few 
years.  Look  at  the  honey-bee,  Harry,  just 
crawling  out  of  that  morning-glory  trumpet. 
Now,  there  is  a  study  for  you ;  something  that 
you  might  read  about  a  whole  lifetime  and 
then  not  find  out  all  there  is  to  learn." 

I  looked  at  the  particular  trumpet  indi- 
cated and  saw  a  very  ordinary  honey-bee, 
with  three  golden  bands  running  across  her 
abdomen.  She  was  just  coming  out  of  the 
trumpet  and  was  shaking  the  wet  from  her 
wings. 

"  Probably  got  caught  in  there  when  the 
rain  came  up  and  so  thought  she  would  wait 
inside  until  it  was  over,"  said  Ben.  "  A  very 
wise  decision.  When  it  lets  up  a  little,  I  pre- 
sume she  will  go  home." 

"  Where  is  her  home?  "  I  asked,  for  I  had 
already  become  interested  in  this  three- 


One's  Own  Back  Door-yard        177 

banded  rogue  who  made  so  free  with  the 
flowers. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  a  little  white  house,  that 
stands  in  a  row  of  little  white  houses,  on  bee 
street,"  replied  my  friend,  "  or  maybe  it  is  a 
bee-tree  two  or  three  miles  from  here.  But, 
in  either  case,  she  will  not  waste  any  time  in 
getting  home  once  she  has  started. 

"  When  she  fairly  gets  her  bearings  she  will 
fly  home  as  straight  as  an  old  crow  will  make 
for  the  rookery,  and  that  has  come  to  be  a 
proverb.'" 

"  How  can  she  tell  which  way  to  go  if  she 
cannot  see  her  home? "  I  asked.  "  She  has 
no  road  to  travel." 

"  No,  she  does  not  do  it  that  way,"  replied 
Ben.  "  Many  of  the  animals  and  birds,  and 
even  the  small  insects  have  a  sense  of  direc- 
tion, a  kind  of  compass  in  their  heads  that  will 
always  tell  them  which  is  the  way  home.  No 
matter  how  dark  it  is  or  how  rough  the  way, 
this  instinct  never  fails. 

"  If  a  man  is  lost  in  the  woods  or  on  the 
prairies,  his  horse  knows  the  way  home  a 


178       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

great  deal  better  than  he  does,  and  if  he  is  a 
wise  man  he  will  give  his  faithful  steed  the 
rein  and  let  him  take  his  master  home. 

"  A  dog  never  gets  lost  in  the  woods,  and 
a  cat  can  always  find  her  way  back  to  the  old 
home  when  she  has  been  moved.  We  humans 
don't  know  it  all,  Harry,  and  in  some  ways  we 
are  inferior  in  wisdom  to  God's  lesser  crea- 
tures." 

"  What  has  the  bee  been  doing  in  the  morn- 
ing-glory blossom? "  I  asked. 

"  She's  been  after  honey,"  replied  the  old 
man.  "  The  flowers  all  know  her  and  love 
her  too,  I  reckon,  although  she  takes  their 
very  heart's  secret  from  them. 

"  This  is  the  way  she  does  it.  She  crawls 
away  down  into  the  trumpet  until  she  gets 
where  the  honey  is,  then  she  licks  it  out  with 
her  little  tongue,  and  puts  it  away  in  her 
honey  stomach.  That  is  a  small  stomach  just 
in  front  of  her  real  stomach.  The  sweet  will 
stay  in  there  until  it  is  partly  digested,  and 
then  it  will  be  ready  to  put  in  the  comb,  that 
perhaps  she  made  yesterday  to  hold  the 


One's  Own  Back  Door-yard       179 

honey.  So  all  the  honey  that  we  get  is  partly 
digested,  and  that  is  why  sick  people  can  eat 
it." 

"  How  many  are  there  in  the  little  white 
house? "  I  asked. 

"  That  depends,"  replied  Ben.  "  Perhaps 
there  are  fifty  or  seventy-five  thousand,  if  it  is 
a  very  large  swarm,  or  maybe  there  are  only 
ten  or  fifteen  thousand.  But  there  are  as 
many  bees  in  a  hive  as  there  are  people  in  a 
good-sized  city,  so  you  see  it  is  quite  a 
family." 

"  What  do  they  all  do?  "  I  asked. 

"Different  things,"  replied  Ben.  "The 
queen  lays  eggs  and  her  duty  is  to  keep  laying 
eggs  so  that  the  hive  shall  keep  up  its  num- 
bers. You  see,  Harry,  an  ordinary  bee  lives 
only  sixty  or  ninety  days,  so  the  queen  must 
be  diligent  to  keep  their  numbers  good.  In 
the  autumn  there  are  no  bees  left  in  the  hive 
that  were  there  in  the  spring,  except  the 
queen.  They  are  all  dead  and  new  ones  have 
taken  their  places. 

"  So  the  queen  lays  eggs.     The  workers 


180       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

who  are  her  daughters  gather  honey,  and 
make  combs  in  which  to  store  it. 

"  The  drones  are  the  queen's  sons,  and  they 
do  nothing  but  live  on  the  honey  that  the 
daughters  gather. 

"  But  all  the  honey-bees  do  not  live  in  the 
little  white  house.  Many  of  them  live  in  bee- 
trees  in  the  deep  woods,  where  they  store  up 
hundreds  of  pounds  of  honey.  It  is  great 
fun  to  hunt  for  a  bee-tree." 

"  Let's  go  some  day,  Ben,"  I  cried,  all  ex- 
citement. 

"  All  right,  boy,  I  intended  to  take  you 
some  time ;  but  I  guess  we  will  not  go  to-day. 

"  Now  that  was  pretty  good  for  one  morn- 
ing-glory trumpet,  Harry.  Let's  see  what 
else  there  is  here  on  the  old  back  porch." 

"  This  rotten  plank  is  full  of  ants,"  I  said, 
rather  indifferently. 

"  Good,  boy,  good,"  cried  Ben,  slapping  me 
on  the  shoulder.  "  Now  you  are  getting  your 
woodsman's  specks  rubbed  up  a  bit.  Per- 
haps I  shall  make  a  woodsman  of  you  after 
all. 


One's  Own  Back  Door-yard       181 

"  Well,  ants  are  just  about  as  wonderful  as 
bees,  only  I  don't  love  'em  as  I  do  the  bees, 
because  they  are  not  as  useful,  but  they  are 
mighty  smart  just  the  same. 

"  Did  you  ever  imagine  when  you  see  a 
large  ant-hill  in  the  pasture  that  in  that 
mound  is  a  great  republic  like  the  United 
States? " 

"  No,"  I  gasped  in  astonishment,  "  tell  me 
about  it." 

"  Well,  long  before  God  made  man,  He 
made  bees  and  ants.  Long  before  He  set 
Adam  and  Eve  in  the  garden  and  told  them 
to  be  good,  ants  and  bees  were  running  king- 
doms and  republics. 

"  The  ants  not  only  have  a  government 
with  a  president,  but  they  also  have  a  stand- 
ing army,  and  they  fight  battles  with  other 
ant-hills — have  spies  and  scouts  and  real  bat- 
tles. They  build  roads  and  bridges,  and 
move  heavy  obstacles  that  are  in  their  way. 
They  do  things  that,  considering  their  size, 
would  make  the  building  of  Brooklyn  bridge 
by  men  seem  like  child's  play. 


1 82       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"They  are  mighty  funny  little  creatures. 
They  can  bite  too.  If  you  don't  believe  it 
just  step  on  an  ant-hill  some  time  and  let 
about  a  thousand  of  them  run  up  your  leg. 

"  Don't  see  anything  else  about  the  old 
porch,  do  you,  Harry?  "  continued  Ben. 

I  peeked  into  all  the  cracks  and  crannies, 
but  could  see  nothing. 

"  I  can  see  a  mighty  interesting  old  chap 
in  the  dirt  just  underneath  the  piazza,"  said 
Ben,  pointing  almost  under  my  bare  feet. 
"  If  he  had  been  a  bear  he  might  have  bitten 
you." 

I  strained  my  eyes  but  could  see  nothing. 

"  It  is  just  one  of  nature's  little  tricks, 
boy,"  said  Ben.  "  He  is  what  is  called  pro- 
tectively colored.  That  is,  his  clothes  just 
match  his  surroundings." 

He  was  lying  partly  buried  in  the  dirt,  and 
even  when  Ben  pointed  him  out  to  me,  I  could 
not  see  him  until  we  poked  him  with  a  stick, 
and  made  him  disclose  himself. 

"  He  is  a  great  hider,  is  Bufo,  the  hop- 
toad," continued  Ben,  "  and  a  most  useful 


One's  Own  Back  Door-yard       183 

little  creature.  Some  people  used  to  think  he 
had  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head,  which,  of 
course,  is  not  so,  but  he  is  a  precious  jewel 
himself  to  the  farmer,  for  he  catches  many 
injurious  worms  and  bugs  and  helps  to  save 
the  farmer's  crops  from  destruction.  We 
could  not  get  along  without  him,  for  all  he  is 
an  ugly  looking  fellow. 

"  His  tongue  is  fastened  at  the  other  end 
from  what  yours  is,  Harry,  so  all  he  has  to  do 
when  he  sees  a  fly  is  to  flick  it  out,  and  as  his 
tongue  is  sticky,  like  fly  paper,  Mr.  Fly  is 
caught  before  he  knows  it. 

"  Bufo  is  quite  a  musician  too.  In  the 
spring  when  the  bullfrogs  and  the  hylas  are 
singing,  you  will  hear  him  down  by  the  pool. 
He  puffs  out  his  throat  until  you  would  think 
it  must  burst,  and  then  sends  forth  a  shrill 
tremulous  note,  that  can  be  heard  for  a  long 
distance. 

"  A  family  of  toads  under  the  front  door- 
step is  as  good  as  a  circus  any  evening." 

"  Where  in  the  world  did  you  learn  all 
these  things,  Ben?  "  I  asked  in  astonishment, 


184       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

for  it  seemed  to  me  that  Ben  could  make  a 
story  of  almost  anything  that  crawled,  crept, 
ran,  or  flew. 

"  Well,  Harry,"  he  replied,  "  most  of  it  I 
picked  up.  I  have  always  kept  my  eyes  open, 
which  is  a  very  necessary  thing  to  do  if  one 
wants  to  see  all  that  is  going  on  in  God's  busy 
world.  I  see  things  and  then  I  think  about 
them,  that  is  necessary  too.  If  a  man  or  a 
boy  will  do  this  he  can  have  a  first-rate  time 
even  in  his  own  back  door-yard." 


CHAPTER  X 
A  WARY  MOTHER 


CHAPTER  X 

A  Wary  Mother 

IT  was  fence-mending  time  in  the  country, 
and  Ben  and  I  were  on  our  way  to  the  pasture 
land  to  look  after  a  half-mile  of  brush  fence 
that  ran  through  the  deep  pine  and  hemlock 
woods. 

It  was  always  a  red  letter  day  for  me  when 
old  Ben  came  to  the  farm  to  work  for  my 
father. 

Fence-mending  time  in  New  England  is 
about  the  first  of  May,  or  perhaps  a  little 
earlier,  if  the  farmer  is  forehanded;  so,  you 
see,  it  was  just  the  time  of  year  to  see  things 
in  the  deep  woods,  if  one  had  the  eyes  to  see 
them. 

All  the  world  seemed  joyous  this  glorious 
May  morning,  and  it  made  me  glad  just  to 
hear  the  pleasant  sounds  about  me. 

The  young  stock  were  lowing,  and  the  lit- 
tle lambs  were  frisking  and  bleating.  The 


1 88       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

pigeons  were  cooing,  and  the  rooster  was 
crowing  as  though  he  would  split  his  throat, 
but  his  real  object  was  to  crow  so  loud  that 
his  rival  could  hear  him  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away. 

The  birds  were  all  busy  flying  to  and  fro 
with  the  most  important  air,  as  it  was  nest 
building  time. 

Really  there  was  some  excuse  for  their 
seeming  importance.  Most  of  the  human 
family  build  a  new  house  once  in  a  lifetime, 
but  many  of  the  birds  build  a  new  one  each 
spring. 

Just  as  old  Ben  and  I  got  over  the  stone 
wall  in  the  pasture,  we  heard  a  cock  partridge 
drumming,  which  is  always  an  interesting 
sound  in  the  spring,  for  then  it  means  some- 
thing. 

"  I  know  that  old  fellow,"  said  Ben.  "  His 
drumming  log  isn't  very  far  from  the  fence; 
perhaps  we  will  get  a  glimpse  of  him.  He  is 
a  very  old  cock  and  I  have  seen  him  drum- 
ming several  times.  I  know  he  is  old  because 
the  feathers  on  his  legs  grow  down  very  low. 


A  Wary  Mother  189 

In  fact,  he  almost  looks  as  though  he  had  on 
pantalets  and  you  never  see  any  but  an  old 
bird  with  feathers  like  that." 

When  we  got  within  about  ten  rods  of  the 
drumming  log  we  crept  forward  carefully, 
Ben  leading  the  way  and  only  going  forward 
while  the  cock  was  drumming  and  keeping 
perfectly  still  when  he  stopped. 

This  is  the  only  way  in  which  one  can  get 
very  close  to  a  drumming  cock,  as  they  seem 
to  stop  and  listen  between  acts,  to  see  that  all 
is  well. 

Finally,  we  got  up  very  close  to  the  log, 
within  fifty  feet  perhaps,  when  Ben  suddenly 
motioned  to  me  to  come  forward.  We  al* 
ways  spoke  in  signs  in  the  woods,  just  as  the 
Indians  do;  this  does  not  disturb  the  creature 
watched. 

I  crept  forward  as  lightly  as  I  could  and 
peered  down  between  two  tree  trunks  in  the 
direction  that  Ben  indicated  with  his  fin- 
ger. 

The  log  was  in  a  rather  open  spot  and  to 
my  great  surprise  I  saw  two  cock  partridges 


190       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

standing  upon  it,  one  at  either  end,  with  their 
heads  down  and  facing  each  other  in  the  most 
belligerent  attitude. 

Their  feathers  were  all  bristled  up  and  they 
looked  about  twice  their  ordinary  size. 

Presently  the  old  cock,  with  the  feathers 
low  down  on  his  legs,  sprang  at  his  antagonist 
and  buffeted  him  off  the  log.  The  quarrel 
was  evidently  over  the  log;  or,  rather,  the  fe- 
male partridge  whose  admiration  and  love 
were  won  by  the  cock  who  drummed  here,  so 
there  was  really  a  good  deal  at  stake. 

The  younger  cock  did  not  take  the  buffet 
that  sent  him  to  the  ground  kindly,  for  he  at 
once  sprang  back  and  dealt  the  old  cock  such 
a  blow  with  beak  and  wings,  that  the  real 
owner  of  the  log  was  dislodged  from  his 
perch. 

This  was  the  signal  for  a  battle  royal. 
Such  a  battle  as  makes  the  fighting  of  the  or- 
dinary barnyard  fowl  seem  tame  enough. 
The  partridge  is  much  quicker  and  stronger 
for  its  size  than  any  domestic  fowl.  Where 
the  slower  domestic  fowl  would  strike  once 


A  Wary  Mother  191 

these  lightning-like  birds  struck  twice  and  the 
buffet  of  their  wings  sounded  like  the  beating 
of  a  carpet. 

Up  and  down  they  went,  sometimes  fight- 
ing on  the  log  and  sometimes  on  the  ground. 
Sometimes  meeting  on  the  ground  and  some- 
times in  mid-air,  as  towards  the  latter  part  of 
the  battle  each  tried  to  pull  feathers  from  his 
rival's  breast. 

Flash,  flash,  slap,  slap,  went  their  wings. 

All  through  the  fight  the  older  cock  seemed 
to  have  the  better  of  it.  Once  he  bowled  his 
rival  over  and  we  thought  he  was  vanquished, 
but  the  youngster  was  game  and  he  soon  went 
back  to  the  fight. 

The  female  partridge,  sitting  somewhere 
near  the  log,  was  evidently  to  his  liking. 
Perhaps  the  old  cock  had  gotten  his  sweet- 
heart away  from  him;  certainly  he  battled 
bravely. 

At  last  his  powerful  rival  dealt  him  a  ter- 
rible blow  that  left  him  motionless  under  the 
bushes  and  the  old  cock  ran  to  him  and  began 
pecking  at  his  head. 


192       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  Here,  stop,  you'll  kill  him,"  shouted  Ben, 
starting  to  the  assistance  of  the  vanquished 
cock. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  victorious  cock 
rose  in  air  with  a  roar  of  wings  and  went  sail- 
ing down  the  aisles  of  the  May  woods  with  the 
speed  of  an  express  train. 

We  went  to  where  the  apparently  lifeless 
partridge  lay,  and  Ben  picked  him  up.  He 
did  not  even  flutter  and  to  my  untutored 
mind  he  was  stone  dead. 

"  Guess  he  won't  fight  any  more,  Ben,"  I 
said,  feeling  bad  for  the  poor  bird. 

"His  heart  still  flutters,"  replied  Ben. 
"  We'll  take  him  down  to  the  brook  and 
sprinkle  a  little  water  on  him,  and  I  guess 
he  will  be  as  good  as  new,  but  it  will  rather 
astonish  him  when  he  comes  to,  to  see  what 
company  he  is  keeping." 

So  we  took  the  apparently  lifeless  bird  to 
the  spring  and  Ben  sprinkled  his  head  with 
water  and  then  laid  him  on  the  grass  to  see 
what  would  happen. 

After  a  few  minutes  he  fluttered  feebly  and 


A  Wary  Mother  193 

then  stood  up.  His  eyes  looked  dazed  and  he 
did  not  seem  really  to  know  just  where  he 
was;  then  a  furtive  look  came  into  them  and 
he  squatted  low  on  the  ground  and  watched  us 
intently. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  roar  of  wings  just 
over  my  head  that  made  me  duck  and  clutch 
the  top  of  my  head  with  both  hands.  I 
looked  on  the  ground  and  my  cock  partridge 
was  gone. 

"  Where  is  he,  Ben? "  I  asked. 

"  There,"  replied  Ben  with  a  grin,  "  and 
pretty  lively  for  a  dead  bird,  too." 

I  looked  where  Ben  indicated,  and  saw  the 
cock  sailing  away,  already  nearly  out  of  sight 
in  the  distant  cover. 

"  I  guess  he  has  had  all  he  will  want  of  old 
feather-legs,"  said  Ben,  with  a  chuckle.  "  He 
ought  to  have  known  better.  Did  you  notice 
his  markings,  Harry?  He  was  a  beautiful 
bird,  with  copper-colored  markings  and  a  red- 
dish ruff.  We  don't  see  partridges  marked 
like  him  often  in  these  parts. 

"  There'll  be  a  nest  somewhere  near  that 


1 94       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

drumming  log.  We'll  keep  our  eyes  open 
and  see  if  we  can  find  it.  The  partridge's 
drumming  is  a  part  of  his  courtship  and  early 
married  life.  One  can  usually  find  the  nest 
within  five  or  ten  rods  of  the  log.  The  par- 
tridge drums  for  his  mate,  just  as  the  wood- 
pecker does,  but  the  female  partridge  does  not 
answer  as  does  the  female  woodpecker.  Mrs. 
Partridge  is  more  modest  than  that.  Now  I 
guess  we  had  better  attend  to  our  fence  mend- 
ing." 

The  following  day  we  searched  for  the  nest, 
but  at  first  were  unsuccessful  in  finding  it. 

"  You  see,"  said  Ben,  when  we  had  about 
given  up  the  search,  "  the  female  partridge 
will  lie  very  close  when  she  is  on  the  nest,  and 
you  have  nearly  to  run  over  her  before  she 
flies ;  she  hates  to  disclose  the  precious  spot. 

"  Sometimes  it  is  in  a  brush  heap,  and 
sometimes  under  the  edge  of  an  old  log,  but  it 
is  always  hidden  wonderfully  well.  Mrs. 
Partridge  does  not  want  the  red  squirrel  to 
find  it  and  eat  her  eggs.  It  would  be  still 
worse  to  have  the  weasel  find  the  nest.  Now 


A  Wary  Mother  195 

the  top  of  that  old  fallen  spruce  would  be  a 
likely  place;  try  it,  Harry." 

I  went  to  the  spruce  top  and  peered  in  but 
could  see  nothing;  then  I  struck  with  my  axe 
helve,  and  the  female  partridge  ran  quickly 
from  the  underbrush,  and  flew  away  into  the 
deep  woods. 

"  There,  what  did  I  tell  you? "  exclaimed 
Ben  exultantly.  "  Now  let's  see  what  we  can 
find." 

We  poked  away  the  thick  branches  and 
found  the  nest,  with  eight  eggs  in  it. 

"  She  hasr/t  got  done  laying  yet,"  said 
Ben.  "  She  will  have  anywhere  from  ten  to 
fifteen  eggs  when  she  has  finished." 

"  Ben,"  I  said,  all  excitement,  "  I  have  got 
a  plan;  let's  wait  until  she  has  set  upon  the 
eggs  for  a  while  and  when  they  are  almost 
ready  to  hatch  let's  put  my  bantam  on  the 
eggs  and  let  her  finish  hatching  them,  and  see 
if  the  partridge  chicks  won't  claim  her  for 
their  mother  and  we  will  have  a  brood  of 
young  partridges  to  raise." 

"  How  shall  we  keep  Mrs.  Partridge  from 


196       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

pounding  the  life  out  of  Seebright  when  we 
are  gone? "  asked  Ben.  "  It  won't  do  to 
move  the  eggs." 

"  We  can  stake  down  some  wire  netting 
over  the  nest  and  make  it  tight  enough  so  not 
even  a  weasel  could  get  in." 

"  Quite  a  plan,  Harry,  quite  a  plan,"  re- 
plied Ben.  "  I  believe  I  will  try  it.  I'd  be 
curious  to  see  how  it  would  work  myself." 

About  three  weeks  later  one  evening  at 
dusk  old  Ben  and  I  might  have  been  seen 
hurrying  to  the  woods.  I  had  Seebright  un- 
der my  coat  and  she  was  clucking  and  scold- 
ing away  vigorously.  Ben  was  carrying  a 
large  roll  of  fine  wire  netting  and  some  stakes 
that  he  had  made  for  the  purpose. 

"  It's  a  mean  trick,"  he  said  as  we  climbed 
over  the  wall,  "  but  I  am  mighty  curious  to 
see  how  it  will  come  out." 

Mrs.  Partridge  was  very  loath  to  leave  her 
nest,  for  she  knew  as  well  as  we  did  that  it 
was  nearly  time  for  her  eggs  to  hatch.  So 
she  quitted  and  fluttered  about  for  a  time, 
trying  every  stratagem  known  to  mother 


A  Wary  Mother  197 

partridges  to  get  us  to  chase  her  away  from 
the  vicinity  of  her  precious  nest.  Finally  she 
flew  away  and  we  showed  Seebright  the  nest 
with  twelve  warm  eggs  in  it. 

The  little  bantam  seemed  delighted  with 
our  discovery,  and  she  settled  down  upon  the 
eggs  just  as  though  it  had  been  her  own  nest 
and  not  that  of  her  wild  kindred. 

Ben  and  I  then  staked  the  netting  down 
carefully  about  her,  making  a  fine  netted 
coop ;  not  even  a  weasel  could  have  gotten  her 
when  we  had  finished. 

We  then  put  in  some  corn  and  a  dish  of 
water  and  left  her  to  finish  hatching  the 
young  partridges. 

The  following  afternoon  we  went  to  the 
woods  to  see  how  Seebright  was  getting 
along.  We  had  barely  entered  the  forest  and 
were  still  quite  a  distance  from  the  nest  when 
we  heard  the  quick  clucking  and  cries  of 
"  quit,  quit,"  that  the  mother  partridge  al- 
ways uses  when  she  is  trying  to  hide  her 
young. 

"  Quick,  Harry,  quick,"  cried  Ben,  and  we 


198       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

hurried  forward.  We  were  just  in  time  to 
see  a  bevy  of  tiny  partridges  scurrying  in 
every  direction,  while  the  mother  was  flutter- 
ing about  upon  the  ground  in  great  agony. 
I  sprang  forward  to  catch  her,  but  she  slipped 
from  my  grasp.  Then  I  remembered  some- 
thing that  had  happened  once  before  when 
Ben  and  I  discovered  a  brood  of  partridge 
chicks,  and  did  not  try  further  to  catch  her. 
Presently  she  flew  away  and  I  turned  to  see 
what  Ben  was  doing. 

He  was  sitting  on  a  log  laughing  and  I 
could  see  that  he  was  immensely  pleased  about 
something. 

I  did  not  think  that  he  was  laughing  at 
my  trying  to  catch  the  lame  mother  par- 
tridge, for  I  had  only  been  fooled  for  a  min- 
ute. 

"  Well,  well,  Harry,  that  old  partridge  has 
completely  whipped  us  at  our  own  game. 
Never  heard  of  anything  quite  so  slick  in  my 
whole  life." 

"  I  know  she  has  hidden  all  her  chicks  and 
gotten  away  herself,"  I  answered,  "  but  what 


A  Wary  Mother  199 

of  that;  let's  go  and  see  how  Seebright  and 
the  eggs  are  coming  on." 

"  Seebright  and  the  eggs ! "  exclaimed  Ben 
chuckling.  "  She  hasn't  any  eggs.  These 
are  her  eggs  hiding  here  in  the  brake." 

I  opened  my  mouth  wide  with  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Why,  Ben,  you  don't  mean  that  the  eggs 
have  hatched  and  our  partridge  chicks  are 
gone,  do  you? " 

"  Just  so,"  replied  my  companion.  "  I 
know  it  just  as  well  as  though  I  had  looked 
under  Seebright.  Mrs.  Partridge  has  beaten 
us  at  our  own  game.  When  she  found  that 
another  was  sitting  on  her  eggs  she  was  prob- 
ably mighty  put  out,  but  finding  she  could  do 
nothing,  she  just  hung  about  to  see  how  it 
would  all  end.  Maybe  she  had  a  plan  in  her 
wise  head.  I  can't  just  say  as  to  that.  You 
see  the  eggs  were  probably  further  along  than 
we  imagined  and  they  hatched  last  night. 
When  they  were  all  hatched,  Mrs.  Partridge 
coolly  called  the  chicks  away  from  Seebright 
through  the  meshes  of  the  wire-netting  and 


2oo       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

walked  off  with  the  whole  brood,  without  as 
much  as  saying  '  Thank  you  for  your  trouble, 
Seebright.'  " 

It  was  all  just  as  Ben  had  supposed.  We 
found  the  nest  empty,  and  Seebright  angrily 
bristling  and  clucking  under  the  netting. 

I  took  her  out  and  put  her  under  my  coat, 
but  she  would  not  be  comforted.  She  consid- 
ered that  we  had  played  a  mean  trick  on  her 
and  she  pecked  savagely  at  me. 

Ben  rolled  up  the  netting  and  we  trudged 
homeward,  my  companion  philosophizing  as 
we  went.  He  was  greatly  pleased  at  the  turn 
of  affairs,  but  I  was  terribly  disappointed,  for 
I  had  planned  an  elaborate  partridge  farm 
from  which  I  would  reap  great  riches. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Harry,  there  isn't  much 
use  trying  to  get  ahead  of  nature  and  her  wild 
creatures.  If  you  do  get  one  of  them  in  a 
trap  or  pitfall,  they  are  so  helpless  and  scorn- 
ful of  you  that  it  takes  all  the  fun  out  of  the 
victory. 

"  But  usually  they  get  the  best  of  us  just 
as  Mrs.  Partridge  did.  The  partridge  is  a 


A  Wary  Mother  201 

fine,  self-reliant  bird.  The  chicks  will  run 
and  almost  fly  before  their  feathers  fairly  get 
dry.  In  twenty-four  hours  they  are  hunting 
for  their  own  living.  What  their  mother 
don't  know  about  bringing  up  chicks  isn't 
worth  knowing.  She  gives  them  their  dust 
bath  and  their  rotten  wood  bath,  and  keeps 
them  free  from  nits  and  lice.  She  knows 
what  is  good  for  the  grub  in  the  head  and  for 
all  the  ailments  that  chicks  are  heir  to.  She 
varies  their  diet  with  berries,  bugs,  insects, 
grasshoppers,  crickets  and  lots  of  other  dain- 
ties, and  when  they  need  physic  she  knows 
where  the  berries  that  they  want  grow. 

"  She  covers  them  with  her  wings  when 
they  are  chicks  and  when  they  are  partly 
grown  she  teaches  them  her  store  of  partridge 
wisdom,  that  they  may  take  care  of  them- 
selves when  the  brood  breaks  up.  They  learn 
partly  from  precept  and  partly  from  imita- 
tion, just  as  all  the  young  things  in  the  wil- 
derness do. 

"  Night  after  night  they  huddle  close  to- 
gether, each  greeting  the  last  comer  as  they 


202       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

gather,  with  soft  loving  clucks  and  cheets. 
The  vigilant  mother  shields  them  from  the 
hawk,  the  owl,  the  fox,  the  weasel  and  the 
snare. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  the  hunter  that  finally 
breaks  up  this  happy  family,  or  perhaps  it  is 
the  autumn  madness  that  always  attacks  the 
young  birds  in  November.  Finally  they  all 
go  their  several  ways  and  each  fights  the  bat- 
tle of  existence  for  himself. 

"  Here  we  are,  Harry,  at  your  gate. 
Good-night." 


CHAPTER  XI 
A  LIVELY  BEE  HUNT 


CHAPTER  XI 
A  Lively  Bee  Hunt 

ONE  Saturday  afternoon  in  June  about 
two  months  after  our  talk  about  bees,  old  Ben 
came  into  the  yard  wearing  a  most  ridiculous- 
looking  thing  on  his  head. 

It  was  about  as  large  as  a  good-sized  water 
pail,  and  came  down  over  his  head  and  rested 
on  his  shoulders.  It  was  made  from  a  frame- 
work of  wire,  covered  with  mosquito  netting.' 
The  whole  protected  the  face  entirely,  but 
from  what,  I  did  not  just  know. 

"  Why,  Ben,  what  kind  of  a  thing  do  you 
call  that? "  I  asked.  "  Looks  as  though  you 
had  a  giant's  hat  on  and  it  was  about  twice  too 
large  for  you." 

"  That's  a  « veil,' "  replied  Ben,  "  and  I 
have  brought  along  one  for  you;  I  made  it 
this  morning.  Let's  see  how  it  fits." 


206       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

So  I  took  off  my  hat  and  slipped  the 
queerly-shaped  thing  over  my  head,  until  it 
rested  on  my  shoulders  just  as  Ben's  did.  It 
was  a  most  interesting  headgear,  and  I  was 
delighted  with  it. 

"  What  is  it  for,  Ben? "  I  asked. 

Ben  laughed.  "  It  is  to  keep  off  bees.  We 
are  going  bee-hunting,  Harry,  and  so  I  have 
brought  along  these  bee-veils.  Although  we 
may  not  have  any  use  for  them,  I  thought  it 
would  be  well  for  us  to  have  them  along." 

I  was  all  excitement  to  go,  and  we  soon  set 
off  across  the  fields,  Ben  leading  the  way  as 
usual.  Besides  the  bee-veils  Ben  carried  a 
small  box  with  a  slide  cover,  which  could  be 
opened  readily. 

Inside  the  box  was  some  honey,  and  Ben 
explained  to  me  that  this  was  to  decoy  the 
bees  into  the  box,  where  they  would  load  up 
with  honey.  When  released  they  would  at 
once  set  off  for  their  tree  in  a  bee-line,  to  store 
the  honey. 

I  was  the  first  to  discover  a  bee,  and  pointed 
it  out  to  Ben  witt  great  excitement. 


A  Lively  Bee  Hunt  207 

"Pooh,  Harry,  that's  only  a  drone," 
said  the  old  man  contemptuously.  "  He 
wouldn't  be  any  better  than  a  fly.  He  would 
just  eat  up  our  honey  and  then  fly  away  with- 
out as  much  as  saying  '  thank  you/  He 
wouldn't  go  back  to  the  tree,  but  would  go 
dawdling  about  anywhere  he  happened  to 
like.  Drones  aren't  any  use  in  a  bee  hunt. 
You  can  tell  them  by  the  deep  booming  sound 
of  their  wings.  They  fly  much  more  heavily 
than  the  workers.  They  are  also  slightly 
larger.  Ah,  here  comes  a  worker." 

Old  Ben  drew  the  slide  of  his  small  box 
and  stood  perfectly  still,  while  the  honey-bee 
hummed  about  our  heads.  "  She's  smelled 
it;  they  have  great  noses,"  he  explained.  "  It 
is  by  scent  that  the  guards  at  the  door  of 
each  hive  tell  whether  a  bee  belongs  to  their 
hive  or  not  and  decide  whether  they  will  let 
her  in.  Imagine  you  and  me  having  to  tell 
all  our  relatives  by  the  sense  of  smell ! " 

After  hunting  about  for  a  few  seconds,  the 
bee  entered  our  box  and  Ben  shut  the  slide 
and  left  her  to  take  her  fill. 


208       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  She'll  be  ready  to  make  a  bee-line  for 
home  in  a  few  minutes,"  he  said.  "  It  is 
mighty  queer  how  all  these  little  creatures 
know  the  way  home.  The  homing  pigeon's 
instinct  is  wonderful.  After  they  have  been 
trained  these  birds  will  fly  hundreds  and  even 
a  thousand  miles  home,  bringing  a  message  to 
some  beleaguered  fort,  or  from  some  starving 
villagers  in  a  dreary,  desolate  land.  The 
homing  pigeons  are  most  useful  creatures  in 
time  of  war.  They  have  been  used  ever  since 
Noah  let  the  dove  go  from  the  ark." 

I  smiled  and  old  Ben  continued: 

"  Harry,  think  of  this.  Sometimes  they 
will  take  one  of  these  little  birds  hundreds  of 
miles  out  to  sea  on  a  ship,  and  then  toss  it  up 
into  the  air  to  seek  its  home. 

"  All  about  in  every  direction,  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach,  is  nothing  but  the  rolling  sea, 
endless  and  terrible.  If  the  poor  pigeon  did 
not  fly  in  the  right  direction,  it  might  have  to 
fly  and  fly,  on  and  on,  until  it  dropped  ex- 
hausted into  the  sea. 

"  But  the  pigeon  has  a  God-given  instinct, 


A  Lively  Bee  Hunt  209 

that  is  better  than  man's  compass.  Some 
pigeon  breeders  say  that  this  instinct  is 
located  in  the  large  bunches  about  the  ears, 
for  the  best  homing  pigeons  are  the  breeds 
with  the  largest  bunches. 

"  Well,  that  pigeon  set  adrift  above  old 
ocean  doesn't  need  any  landmarks.  He  just 
circles  about  two  or  three  times  until  some- 
thing inside  him  tells  him  which  way  to  point 
his  bill  and  then  he  starts,  straight  as  an  arrow 
he  goes,  and  never  once  turns  to  right  or  left 
until  he  drops  into  the  home-cote." 

While  Ben  had  been  talking  he  had  re- 
leased the  captive  bee,  which  had  flown  home. 

When  she  returned  she  brought  three  more 
bees  with  her,  all  of  whom  we  made  captive. 

"  I  guess  we  have  got  bees  enough  by  this 
time  and  some  of  them  ought  to  be  pretty  well 
loaded  up.  I'll  let  out  one.  Now  get  your 
eye  on  it  when  it  leaves  the  box  and  when  you 
see  what  direction  it  is  going  just  leg  it  and 
chase  it  clean  home." 

If  there  was  any  twinkle  in  Ben's  eye  when 
he  said  these  words  I  did  not  notice  it.  So 


2io       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

when  the  bee,  laden  with  sweets,  for  which  it 
had  not  labored,  came  forth,  circled  about  for 
a  few  seconds  and  then  started  across  the 
fields  in  a  line  straight  as  a  telephone  wire,  I 
started  after  it  at  my  best  pace. 

"  Leg  it,  leg  it,  Harry,"  shouted  my  com- 
panion. "  I  am  afraid  she  is  going  to  get 
away  from  you." 

I  doubled  my  efforts,  but  in  vain,  for  the- 
speck  in  the  air  above  me  grew  smaller  and 
smaller  and  just  as  I  lost  it  I  heard  Ben  shout, 
"  Look  out,"  but  his  cry  came  too  late. 

Without  the  slightest  warning  I  plunged 
head  first  into  the  meadow  ditch. 

My  bee-veil  was  jammed  down  on  to  my 
head  and  crushed  out  of  shape,  and  I  was 
covered  with  mud  and  water. 

"  Too  bad,  Harry,  too  bad,"  said  Ben,  help- 
ing me  out  a  minute  later.  "  I  guess  you're 
not  hurt  much.  I  shouted  for  you  to  look 
out,  but  you  were  so  hard  after  that  bee  that 
you  didn't  hear  me. 

"  That  is  the  trouble  with  chasing  bees  pell- 
mell  crosslots.  You  want  to  be  cross-eyed, 


A  Lively  Bee  Hunt  2 1 1 

and  have  one  eye  look  down,  and  the  other 
up.  If  you  keep  your  eyes  on  the  bee,  you 
go  into  a  hole,  and  if  you  look  down  you  lose 
your  bee.  It's  real  inconsiderate  of  bees  not 
to  travel  the  highways  when  they  start  for 
home. 

"  Now  we  will  follow  along  in  the  direction 
that  this  bee  took  for  thirty  or  forty  rods,  and 
then  we  will  let  out  another  and  that  one  will 
continue  the  trail  for  us.  You  see  it  is  a  kind 
of  relay  race." 

When  we  let  out  the  second  bee  I  let  Ben 
lead  off  in  the  chase  after  it,  while  I  followed 
carefully  behind. 

As  much  as  I  loved  Ben  I  was  rather  in 
hopes  that  he  would  fall  into  a  ditch,  or  trip 
on  a  stick  so  that  I  could  laugh,  but  he  did 
not. 

I  do  not  know  how  he  managed  it,  but  he 
always  seemed  to  find  the  smooth  places. 

This  time  we  followed  the  bee  much  farther 
than  we  did  the  first,  but  it  was  finally 
lost. 

"  There  isn't  much  use  of  you  and  me  try- 


212       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

ing  to  make  sixty  miles  an  hour,  Harry,"  said 
Ben  at  the  end  of  a  longer  chase  than  usual, 
after  which  we  both  stood  panting. 

"  That  is  about  what  a  bee  makes  when  she 
is  lining  it  out  for  home.  Last  year  they 
raced  some  bees  with  carrier  pigeons,  and  the 
bees  came  in  ahead.  They  sprinkled  dust  on 
their  wings  so  they  could  be  sure  that  it  was 
the  same  bees  that  won  out." 

The  eight  or  ten  bees  that  we  had  captured 
took  us  about  a  mile  and  near  to  the  deep 
woods. 

The  last  one  that  we  let  out  flew  back  in 
just  the  opposite  direction  from  that  which 
the  other  bees  had  taken. 

"  We  have  gone  past  the  tree,"  said  Ben, 
"  and  it  can't  be  a  great  way  off." 

Ben  again  opened  the  box  containing 
honey,  and  we  sat  down  upon  a  knoll  to  wait 
for  developments. 

In  the  course  of  a  minute  or  two  a  bee  came 
for  the  sweet  which  she  had  evidently  smelled. 

When  she  had  eaten  her  fill  she  did  not 
circle  about  as  the  bees  had  done  when  we  first 


A  Lively  Bee  Hunt  213 

started  out,  but  made  a  straight  line  for  the 
woods. 

Ben  did  not  chase  her  but  sat  still  and 
waited  for  another.  Soon  it  came,  and  an- 
other and  another,  until  a  dozen  had  filled 
themselves  at  the  box. 

"  Do  you  see  that  old  broken-topped  maple 
at  the  edge  of  the  woods?  "  asked  Ben,  point- 
ing out  the  tree  in  question. 

"  Well,  that  is  the  bee-tree.  I  have  had 
my  eye  on  it  for  some  time,  and  they  all  fly 
for  it  as  straight  as  a  string. 

"  Here  comes  another.  Now  we  will  keep 
this  one  and  see  what  she  will  tell  us." 

So  we  made  a  captive  of  the  bee  and  then 
went  up  close  to  the  maple  stub.  Finally 
Ben  let  the  prisoner  go,  and  it  flew  straight 
to  the  maple  and  disappeared  inside  through 
a  deep  crack  in  the  trunk. 

"  That  settles  it,"  said  Ben,  "  this  is  our 
bee-tree. 

"  Now  you  gather  a  lot  of  twigs  and  dry 
sticks  and  we  will  see  what  virtue  there  is  in 
a  little  smoke.  Long  before  bees  ever  had 


214       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

reason  to  fear  man  they  feared  smoke.  It 
was  the  forest  fires  of  pre-historic  times  that 
taught  the  bee  fear  of  smoke.  Smoke  seems 
to  paralyze  and  stupefy  the  swarm,  and  a  few 
whiffs  are  worth  a  good  deal  when  you  are 
after  honey." 

So  I  gathered  a  large  pile  of  fagots,  and 
we  soon  had  a  bright  blaze  going.  Then  Ben 
put  on  rotten  wood  and  grass  to  make  it 
smudge,  and  we  soon  had  a  great  column  of 
smoke  pouring  into  the  tree. 

At  first  the  bees  came  out  in  a  black,  angry 
cloud,  and  I  fled  to  a  safe  distance,  but  Ben 
did  not  seem  to  mind  them.  Finally  the 
smoke  drove  them  all  into  the  tree,  and  Ben 
began  to  cut  it  down. 

The  outer  shell  of  the  old  stub  was  very 
hard  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  Ben  never 
would  get  it  down.  At  last,  without  the 
slightest  warning,  it  fell  with  a  mighty  crash, 
breaking  open  at  the  crack  where  we  had  seen 
the  bees  enter. 

I  never  would  have  believed  that  such  small 
creatures  as  bees  could  have  made  such  a 


A  Lively  Bee  Hunt  2 1 5 

roaring  with  their  wings  as  that  swarm 
made  when  it  poured  forth  in  a  black  cloud, 
to  avenge  itself  upon  the  destroyers  of  its 
home. 

In  an  instant  the  air  about  us  was  black 
with  them. 

I  thrust  my  hands  into  my  pockets  to  pro- 
tect them  and  ran  pell-mell  into  a  thick 
growth  of  scrub  hemlock  which  was  near  at 
hand. 

My  bee-veil  protected  my  face  and  neck 
nicely,  but  some  of  the  sharp  bayonets  of  this 
infuriated  army  pricked  the  skin  on  my 
wrists,  and  one  went  up  my  pants  leg  on  a 
voyage  of  discovery. 

I  yelled  with  pain  and  fought  them  des- 
perately. 

I  was  lucky  enough  to  get  off  with  four  or 
five  stings,  but  these  made  my  wrists  swell 
badly. 

When  the  bees  at  last  left  me,  and  I  peeped 
out  of  the  bushes  to  see  how  it  fared  with  old 
Ben,  I  saw,  to  my  great  astonishment,  that 
he  was  sitting  on  one  end  of  the  fallen  log, 


216       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

with  a  swarm  of  bees  about  him,  but  appar- 
ently quite  unconcerned. 

"  Run,  Ben,"  I  cried;  "  you  will  be  stung  to 
death." 

"  They  won't  hurt  me.  I  have  handled  the 
little  critters  before.  I  am  better  protected 
than  you,  for  I  have  on  a  pair  of  gloves  that 
protect  my  wrists.  I  meant  to  have  told  you 
to  go  farther  back  when  the  tree  fell,  but  it 
got  ahead  of  me. 

"  We'll  put  some  mud  on  those  stings  of 
yours  and  it  will  soon  cure  them.  That  is  the 
remedy  all  the  wild  creatures  use.  But  we 
are  well  paid  for  our  pains.  There  is  a  hun- 
dred pounds  of  honey  in  this  tree  if  there  is 
an  ounce." 

When  the  roaring  of  the  angry  swarm  had 
partially  died  down,  I  went  nearer  to  see  the 
honey. 

It  was  a  most  beautiful  sight.  Although 
the  comb  had  been  considerably  broken  in  the 
fall,  yet  it  still  kept  many  of  its  fantastic 
shapes. 

Running  up  and  down  in  the  middle  of  the 


A  Lively  Bee  Hunt  217 

cavity  was  a  solid  pillar  of  comb,  eight  or  nine 
inches  in  diameter,  and  that  was  fastened  to 
the  inside  of  the  cavity  every  foot  or  so,  by 
smaller  braces  of  comb,  filled  with  delicious 
honey. 

Ben  said  these  braces  were  put  in  to  steady 
the  main  column,  and  keep  it  from  falling. 

We  took  out  two  large  milk  pails  full  of  the 
delicious  sweet  and  left  as  much  more  in  the 
tree. 

The  following  day  we  came  back  and  got 
the  rest,  but  the  swarm,  which  we  also  in- 
tended to  capture,  had  disappeared. 

"  They  didn't  want  to  trust  themselves  to 
our  mercies  any  longer,"  said  Ben.  "  They 
will  find  another  hollow  tree,  and  before  the 
frost  has  closed  the  late  goldenrod  and  the 
purple  asters,  they  will  have  sweet  enough 
stored  up  to  carry  them  through  the  cold 
weather.  If  we  had  brought  their  house 
down  about  their  heads  a  month  or  two  later, 
they  would  probably  have  all  perished. 

"  I  always  feel  as  mean  as  dirt  when  I  take 
away  the  honey  that  the  poor  bee  has  gathered 


2 1 8       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

drop  by  drop,  bringing  some  of  it  three  miles 
perhaps. 

"  If  the  bee  labored  so  hard,  it  seems  as 
though  she  ought  to  have  it.  But  man  makes 
all  earth's  creatures  work  for  him,  and  some- 
times he  is  not  even  grateful." 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  SPECKLED  HEIFER'S  CALF 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  Speckled  Heifer's  Calf 

THE  speckled  heifer  was  my  very  own,  and 
of  course  a  wonderful  cow.  She  had  been 
mine  ever  since  she  was  a  frisky  spotted  calf, 
looking  very  much  like  a  fawn. 

I  had  taught  her  to  drink  milk  from  a 
bucket  and  had  tethered  her  out  all  the  first 
summer  in  the  backyard.  In  fact,  she  was  a 
spoiled  and  petted  calf,  and  that  was  probably 
why  she  hid  her  own  first  calf  when  it  was 
born. 

This  was  a  great  disappointment  to  me,  as 
I  had  hoped  that  the  new  calf  would  mate  one 
that  I  already  had  and  make  a  pair  of  steers. 

We  knew  well  enough  that  the  speckled 
heifer  had  a  calf  somewhere  in  the  great  pas- 
ture, but,  where,  was  the  question.  The 
heifer's  bag  was  large,  and  her  udders  were 
wet  each  morning  when  we  found  her  quietly 


222       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

feeding,  as  though  her  thoughts  were  upon 
anything  but  calves. 

I  spent  several  days  watching  and  spying 
upon  her,  but  with  no  success.  As  long  as 
I  was  in  sight  she  would  eat  grass  or  lie  in  the 
shade  and  chew  her  cud,  but  as  soon  as  I  got 
interested  in  a  bird's  nest,  or  a  berry  patch  she 
was  gone,  and  I  would  see  no  more  of  her  that 
day.  We  tried  taking  a  dog  into  the  pasture 
in  hopes  of  frightening  her  into  fleeing  to  her 
bossy,  but  the  experiment  was  a  failure. 

The  sight  of  the  dog  seemed  to  drive  the 
young  cow  almost  frantic  and  to  fill  her  with 
blind,  unreasonable  rage.  She  charged  the 
poor  dog,  who  was  innocent  of  any  evil  to- 
wards her,  again  and  again,  until  at  last  the 
bewildered  canine  stuck  his  tail  between  his 
legs  and  ran  out  of  the  pasture.  Then  she 
turned  upon  Ben  and  me. 

Ben  took  refuge  in  a  thicket,  so  she  left 
him,  and  came  for  me.  At  first  I  thought  I 
was  not  afraid  of  the  speckled  heifer;  was  she 
not  my  own  bossy  and  had  I  not  petted  her 
ever  since  the  day  she  was  born?  I  called 


The  Speckled  Heifer's  Calf       223 

"  Bossy,  Bossy,"  in  my  most  persuasive  tones5 
but  she  came  at  me  like  a  mad  creature,  forc- 
ing me  to  shin  up  a  small  tree  with  all  possible 
speed. 

When  I  had  reached  a  safe  limb  I  looked 
for  Ben,  and  discovered  him  peeping  out  of 
the  thicket,  and  laughing. 

"  Harry,"  he  called,  "  that  heifer  has  gone 
stark  mad  for  the  moment  and  you  and  I  had 
better  make  ourselves  scarce.  She  will  be  all 
right  again  when  she  has  had  time  to  cool  off. 
Mother  love  is  a  queer  instinct." 

The  most  dangerous  animal  in  the  world  is 
an  enraged  mother  who  thinks  her  young  are 
threatened.  When  the  speckled  heifer  had 
gone  away  to  feed  in  a  different  part  of  the 
pasture,  Ben  and  I  slunk  away  just  as  the 
poor  dog  had  done,  and  left  her  to  chew  the 
cud  of  reflection. 

The  following  morning  when  we  visited  the 
pasture  a  wonderful  change  had  come  over 
the  heifer.  She  stood  at  the  bars  bellowing 
and  moaning  pitifully.  Her  eyes  were  large 
and  full  of  pain,  her  muzzle  was  covered  with 


224       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

foam,  and  her  sides  were  wet  with  sweat.  In 
addition  to  this,  there  were  deep  scratches 
upon  her  back  and  shoulders  and  she  was 
trembling  as  though  with  great  fear. 

When  she  saw  us  coming  she  redoubled  her 
lowing,  and  started  off  across  the  pasture  at 
a  brisk  trot. 

"  Something  is  up,"  said  Ben.  "  She  is 
eager  enough  to  show  us  where  the  calf  is 
now,  but  in  my  opinion  it  won't  do  any  good, 
for  we  will  find  it  dead." 

My  grief  and  astonishment  at  this  an- 
nouncement were  too  great  for  words,  so  I 
trotted  along  silently  behind  Ben,  hoping 
against  hope  that  he  would  be  mistaken  for 
once. 

There  was  no  sham  or  deceit  about  the 
speckled  heifer  to-day  and  we  had  to  go  at  a 
brisk  trot  to  keep  up  with  her.  She  occasion- 
ally looked  back  to  see  if  we  were  following, 
and  seemed  rather  afraid  that  we  would  turn 
back. 

She  led  us  straight  to  the  deep  woods  and 
in  and  out,  among  the  thickets  until  we  came 


The  Speckled  Heifer's  Calf       225 

to  a  thick  clump  of  spruce.  These  trees 
stood  so  close  together  that  their  spreading 
tops  kept  out  the  sunlight  quite  effectively 
and  a  kind  of  twilight  or  gloom  always 
reigned  beneath  them. 

There,  in  the  deepest  shadows,  as  though  to 
screen  so  sad  a  sight  from  the  bright  light  of 
day,  lay  the  little  bossy  for  which  we  had 
searched  so  long  and  diligently.  He  was  a 
perfect  beauty,  as  nature  had  designed  him, 
with  a  sleek,  glossy  coat,  generously  flecked 
and  dappled  like  his  mother's,  but,  as  we  be- 
held him,  he  was  a  pitiful  sight. 

His  throat  was  horribly  torn  as  though  by 
hungry  fangs,  his  head  and  neck  were  badly 
lacerated  and  he  was  besmeared  with  his  own. 
bright  blood,  and  covered  with  blow-flies. 
The  ground  about  was  trampled  and  blood- 
stained, the  ferns  and  underbrush  were 
broken  and  there  was  every  evidence  of  a  des- 
perate struggle. 

I  was  too  grief-stricken  to  speak.  Ben 
was  carefully  noticing  all  the  signs,  as  was 
his  Indian  way.  When  he  had  examined  the 


226       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

wounds  upon  the  dead  calf  carefully,  and 
noted  all  the  hoof  prints  in  the  trampled  forest 
carpet,  he  fell  to  examining  a  near-by  tree 
trunk. 

"  Seems  to  me  this  tree  trunk  looks  mighty 
interesting,  Harry,"  he  exclaimed.  "What 
do  you  think  about  it?  " 

"  Looks  just  like  all  the  rest  of  the  tree 
trunks,"  I  replied  in  disgust.  It  annoyed  me 
that  Ben  should  think  of  such  trifling  things 
as  how  tree  trunks  looked  at  a  time  like  this. 

"  Come  here,  Harry,"  said  he,  "  and  let  me 
show  you  that  it  does  not  look  just  like  all  the 
other  tree  trunks." 

I  followed  Ben's  finger  carefully  from 
point  to  point,  as  he  showed  me  where  the 
bark  had  been  scratched  and  torn  off.  At 
each  of  these  points  was  a  deep  scar  in  the 
bark,  that  showed  the  white  wood  beneath. 
Finally  Ben  picked  two  soft  gray  hairs  from 
beneath  a  sliver  of  bark,  and  held  them  up  for 
my  inspection. 

"  Look  like  cat  hairs,"  I  suggested. 

"  Mightily,"  replied  Ben.     "  They  are  cat 


The  Speckled  Heifer's  Calf       227 

hairs,  and  they  came  out  of  the  coat  of  a  wild- 
cat." 

"  A  wildcat,"  I  exclaimed  in  astonishment, 
at  the  same  time  looking  up  into  the  branches 
overhead  apprehensively;  "where  in  the 
world  did  it  come  from?  " 

"  Oh,  up  on  the  mountain,"  replied  Ben. 
"  There  have  been  litters  of  bobcats  raised  on 
the  mountain  off  and  on  for  several  years, 
but  they  don't  often  hunt  so  far  from  home. 
The  kittens  must  be  quite  cats  by  this  time, 
and  so  their  mother  has  to  hunt  far  and  near 
to  satisfy  them. 

"  It  happened  last  evening,  probably,  at 
about  twilight.  The  great  cats  hunt  in  the 
morning  and  evening.  Sometimes  they  hunt 
by  moonlight,  but  rarely  in  broad  daylight. 

"  Mrs.  Bobcat  probably  came  prowling 
through  the  pasture  in  search  of  a  gray  rab- 
bit and  with  no  thought  of  calf.  She  is  rather 
dull  colored  this  time  of  year,  and  is  hardly 
noticeable  among  the  browns  of  the  ferns  and 
the  dried  up  weeds.  A  bobcat  always  sneaks 
along  like  a  gray  shadow.  She  probably 


228       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

came  upon  the  calf  in  hiding  when  its  mother 
was  feeding  and  pounced  upon  it,  without 
considering  that  there  was  a  mother  to  reckon 
with.  There  is  where  it  was  lying.  Here 
are  the  hoof  prints  where  the  poor  calf 
plunged  about,  probably  with  the  cat  upon 
its  back  tearing  at  its  throat.  I  presume 
about  that  time  it  did  some  tall  bleating  and 
Specky  appeared  on  the  scene. 

"  Then  Mrs.  Bobcat  went  up  this  tree.  I 
have  already  shown  you  the  clawprints.  The 
cat  had  a  rather  close  call,  too,  for  here  is  a 
scar  where  the  heifer's  horn  has  ripped  the 
bark  off. 

"  This  attack  probably  infuriated  the  cat 
and  she  revenged  herself  by  dropping  on  the 
heifer's  back.  That  is  how  she  came  to  be  so 
clawed.  Then  the  heifer  lost  her  head  and 
lit  out.  The  bobcat  must  have  hopped  off 
when  she  had  ridden  a  few  rods,  and  come 
back  to  finish  the  calf.  The  heifer  must  have 
run  clear  down  to  the  bars." 

I  opened  both  my  eyes  and  mouth  wide 
with  astonishment  as  Ben  unfolded  the  story 


The  Speckled  Heifer's  Calf       229 

of  this  little  tragedy.  A  moment  before  the 
whole  thing  had  seemed  an  inscrutable 
mystery,  and  here  it  was  before  our  eyes  as 
plain  as  the  page  of  a  printed  book. 

"  You  piece  things  together  just  like  a 
block  puzzle,"  I  said.  "  I  never  could  have 
made  it  out  at  all,  but  it  comes  to  you  just 
like  a  story." 

"  It  all  comes  with  time,  Harry,"  replied 
the  old  man.  "  Reading  signs  is  a  science, 
just  like  astronomy,  and  has  to  be  acquired. 
We'll  leave  the  calf  just  as  he  is,  and  to-mor- 
row we  will  be  around  and  have  a  wildcat 
hunt." 

"  How  are  you  going  to  manage  it,  Ben? " 
I  asked,  for  it  seemed  to  me  like  rather 
dangerous  business.  To  my  fancy  the  tops 
of  all  the  trees  in  the  pasture  were  already 
swarming  with  bobcats,  which  might  drop 
down  upon  our  heads  at  any  moment. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  we  will  manage  it  all  right," 
Ben  replied.  "  I  will  borrow  a  fox  hound 
and  you  can  go  along  with  a  pail  of  salt. 
When  the  dog  gets  the  cat  good  and  tired  by 


230       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

running  her,  you  can  creep  up  and  put  the 
salt  on  her  tail.  Then  we  can  carry  her  home 
in  a  bag." 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  twinkle  in  Ben's 
eye  as  he  explained  his  plan,  I  should  have 
thought  the  program  decidedly  alarming. 
Even  as  it  was,  I  fairly  lamed  my  neck  look- 
ing up  into  the  treetops  as  we  journeyed 
home.  I  could  see  Ben  watching  me  from 
the  corner  of  his  eye  and  trying  not  to 
smile. 

The  following  morning,  just  when  the  pink 
and  saffron  east  had  begun  to  glow  and  blush, 
I  was  awakened  by  pebbles  being  tossed 
against  my  bedroom  window. 

"  Come,  come,  bobcat  hunter,  get  up !  The 
trail  will  get  cold  if  we  wait  too  long,"  called 
a  voice  below. 

When  I  joined  Ben  a  few  moments  later 
on  the  back  porch,  I  found  to  my  great  sur- 
prise that  he  was  not  armed,  except  with  a 
stout  club,  while  in  his  other  hand  he  carried 
a  small  tin  pail. 

"  Why,  Ben,  where  is  old  Kentucky? "  I 


The  Speckled  Heifers  Calf       231 

asked,  feeling  almost  afraid  to  start  out 
on  this  hunting  trip  without  Ben's  trusty 
rifle. 

"  Oh,  she  is  pretty  heavy,  and  I  thought  I 
had  better  leave  her  at  home,"  drawled  my 
companion,  "  but  I  have  brought  along  your 
pail  of  salt.  You  see  I  rely  mostly  on  you 
and  the  salt." 

A  cold  chill  crept  down  my  spine.  Did 
Ben  really  intend  to  have  me  go  after  the 
cat  with  salt?  If  so,  I  would  rather  be  ex- 
cused. 

I  peeped  into  the  pail  and  saw  that  it  con- 
tained sulphur,  instead  of  salt,  and  so  was 
quite  relieved. 

The  dew  was  very  heavy  and  the  grass  was 
full  of  cobwebs.  Ben  said  it  was  a  fine  morn- 
ing for  "  trailing." 

We  lost  no  time  in  getting  to  the  woods, 
but,  before  letting  the  hound  go,  we  made  a 
complete  circle  of  the  spot  where  the  dead 
calf  lay,  keeping  the  dog  on  the  leash. 

The  hound  at  once  discovered  the  trail  and 
by  the  way  he  jumped  about  and  whined  to 


232       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

be  let  loose,  we  knew  that  the  track  was  very 
fresh. 

When  we  untied  the  cord  from  his  collar, 
the  hound  went  off  at  a  brisk  pace,  while  its 
long  drawn  owe-e-u-u-wowu-u  wow-u-u 
floated  pleasantly  back  to  us  on  the  fresh 
morning  wind. 

As  soon  as  the  hound  was  fairly  off,  we  ran 
to  a  commanding  position  about  a  third  of  the 
way  up  the  mountain. 

For  about  five  minutes  the  hound  wound  in 
and  out  through  the  woods,  then  started  for 
the  mountain  at  a  lively  clip.  To  my  great 
astonishment  the  dog  ran  by  within  a  few  rods 
of  us,  and  I  hardly  dared  to  breathe  as  the 
chase  drew  near.  I  fully  expected  to  see  a 
bobcat,  about  the  size  of  a  tiger,  break  into 
the  open. 

"  Why  didn't  we  see  it  go  by,  Ben? "  I 
whispered. 

"  It  went  before  we  came  up,"  replied  Ben. 
"Look  there!" 

At  the  moment  he  spoke,  the  long-drawn 
notes  of  the  fox  hound  changed  to  short 


The  Speckled  Heifer's  Calf       233 

sharp  barks,  interspersed  with  excited 
yelps. 

I  looked  in  the  direction  indicated  and  saw 
a  large  gray  animal,  with  a  short  tail  and  a 
whiskery  face,  spring  lightly  upon  the  trunk 
of  a  tree  that  had  been  partly  blown  down, 
but  which  still  stood  at  an  angle  lodged 
against  its  fellows. 

The  cat  scratched  up  the  trunk  for  eight  or 
ten  feet  and  then,  in  a  frenzy  of  rage  that 
fairly  made  my  hair  stand  on  end,  began  tear- 
ing the  bark  from  the  tree,  at  the  same  time 
uttering  a  series  of  the  most  blood-curdling 
screeches  and  snarls.  The  bark  came  down 
in  showers,  the  cat's  claws  flew  so  rapidly  that 
I  could  scarcely  see  them,  while  the  screech- 
ing seemed  to  my  ears  like  the  screaming  of 
a  panther. 

"  Let's  go  home,  Ben,"  I  whispered  be- 
tween the  chattering  of  my  teeth.  "  She 
might  see  us.  You  know  we  aren't 
armed." 

Ben  laughed.  "  A  bobcat  won't  fight  un- 
less she  is  cornered,"  he  said.  "  You  can  go 


234       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

home  if  you  wish  to,  but  you  don't  want  to 
leave  me  to  be  eaten  alive,  do  you?  " 

I  made  no  reply,  though  I  felt  anything 
but  comfortable.  To  tell  the  truth,  at  that 
moment,  I  wished  that  I  was  at  home  in  the 
ten  acre  lot  hoeing  corn,  or  almost  anywhere 
else  than  where  I  was. 

Presently  the  cat  jumped  from  the  tree 
trunk  and  ran  up  the  mountain  side,  the  dog 
following  in  hot  haste. 

Its  long  drawn  owe-e-w-u  had  once  more 
changed  to  a  quick  bark  varied  by  excited 
yelps. 

In  five  minutes  more  the  barking  had 
changed  to  nothing  but  yelps  and  Ben  cried, 
"  Good,  the  cat  has  either  treed  or  holed. 
Come  on,  Harry." 

I  was  afraid  to  go  and  still  more  afraid  to 
stay  behind,  so  I  followed  Ben,  fairly  treading 
on  his  heels  in  my  anxiety  to  keep  as  close  to 
my  companion  as  possible. 

We  found  the  hound  barking  and  scratch- 
ing away  excitedly  at  a  fair-sized  hole  in  a 
great  ledge. 


UTTERING  A  SERIES  OF  MOST  BLOOD  CURDLING 
SCREECHES  AND  SNARLS 


The  Speckled  Heifer's  Calf       235 

Ben  seemed  much  pleased  at  this  discovery, 
and,  for  final  evidence  that  the  cat  had 
holed,  he  picked  a  gray  hair  from  the 
edge  of  the  rock  and  held  it  up  for  my  inspec- 
tion. 

"  Looks  just  like  the  one  we  saw  on  the 
tree,  Harry,"  he  said.  "  Now  you  take  the 
pail  and  scramble  into  the  hole  and  feed  the 
cat  some  brimstone,  while  I  stay  outside  and 
keep  the  male  bobcat  from  coming  in  and  dis- 
turbing you." 

"  Not  much,"  I  said.  "  I  haven't  lost  any 
bobcat." 

Ben  brought  a  large  flat  stone  and  placed 
it  so  that  it  would  cover  the  entrance  to  the 
den.  Then  he  put  the  brimstone  into  the 
mouth  of  the  den  and  set  fire  to  it,  covering 
the  flat  stone  over  with  his  coat,  that  none  of 
the  fumes  might  escape. 

For  a  minute  or  two,  all  was  silent  inside, 
but  finally  we  heard  a  coughing  and  scratch- 
ing; then  the  cat  made  a  sudden  rush  for  the 
entrance  of  the  den. 

I  was  terribly  afraid  that  the  stone  would 


236       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

be  pushed  aside,  but  Ben  only  gripped  his 
club  and  grinned  at  my  alarm. 

"  Guess  I  better  let  him  out,  Harry,"  he 
said  at  length.  "  It  seems  to  be  strangling 
him,"  and  to  my  horror  he  raised  the  stone  so 
as  to  make  a  small  crack. 

Ben  had  gone  mad,  but  his  folly  should  be 
on  his  own  head.  I  was  not  going  to  be  food 
for  a  bobcat. 

Then  Ben  let  go  his  hold  on  the  stone  and 
it  fell  flat  in  front  of  the  hole  leaving  the  en- 
trance free.  With  a  yell  of  terror,  I  started 
down  the  mountain  side,  not  stopping  even  to 
choose  my  footing,  feeling  that  to  break  my 
neck  was  better  than  to  be  clawed  to  ribbons. 

Presently,  I  made  a  misstep  and  landed  in 
a  heap  at  the  bottom  of  a  little  gully.  When 
I  picked  myself  up,  I  heard  Ben  calling  to 
me.  "  Come  back,  Harry,"  he  hallooed. 
"  It's  all  over.  I've  killed  the  bobcat." 

I  clambered  back  but  took  care  to  recon- 
noiter  at  a  safe  distance. 

It  was  just  as  Ben  had  said.  The  big  gray 
cat  lay  dead  at  his  feet.  My  courage  came 


The  Speckled  Heifer's  Calf       237 

back  and  I  joined  him  and  the  hound  at  the 
entrance  of  the  den. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  kill  it,  Ben? " 
I  asked.  "  You  didn't  have  any  gun." 

"  I  didn't  need  any,"  he  replied.  "  It  was 
so  stupefied  that  it  wouldn't  have  known  its 
own  grandmother.  The  brimstone  did  the 
business.  I  simply  knocked  her  on  the  head 
when  she  came  out." 

It  was  a  fine  specimen  of  the  bobcat,  or  bay 
lynx,  as  it  should  really  be  called.  Its  coat 
was  long  and  silky,  of  a  grayish  tone,  striped 
and  flecked  with  light  brown.  There  were 
several  brown  streaks  along  the  back  and 
some  tawny  patches  upon  the  sides.  The 
tail  had  several  dark  rings  and  was  tipped 
with  black.  The  animal's  long,  sharp,  white 
claws  sent  a  shiver  down  my  back  as  I  felt 
them. 

When  we  had  carried  the  cat  home,  Ben 
brought  out  the  spring  scales  and,  tying  a 
cord  about  the  bobcat's  hind  legs,  he  hooked 
in  the  scales  and  swung  the  splendid  speci- 
men clear  of  the  ground.  My  eyes  opened 


238       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

wide  as  the  indicator  sprung  down  until  it  reg- 
istered thirty-six  pounds.  After  all,  to  have 
such  a  fine  skin  as  this  was  some  compensa- 
tion for  the  loss  of  the  speckled  heifer's  calf. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
CAMPING  WITH  OLD  BEN 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Camping  With  Old  Ben 

WHEN  old  Ben  told  me  one  August  day 
that  we  would  go  away  into  the  great  woods 
for  a  week's  camping  out,  and  that  we  would 
start  within  a  day  or  two,  my  joy  knew  no 
bounds. 

I  rolled  upon  the  ground  and  shouted, 
stood  upon  my  head  and  turned  hand-springs. 
In  fact,  my  joy  was  so  great  that  I  could  not 
find  any  kind  of  antic  that  quite  expressed  it. 

This  had  long  been  a  dream  of  delight 
which  I  had  thought  almost  too  good  ever 
to  come  true,  but  here  it  was  about  to  be 
realized.  "  Which  would  you  rather  live  in, 
a  tent  or  a  shack? "  asked  Ben,  when  I  had 
become  sufficiently  calmed  to  consider  details. 

"  A  tent  would  be  better  in  a  rain-storm, 
but  a  shack  is  mighty  clean  and  pleasant,  and 
it  smells  so  woodsy  that  I  like  it  myself." 

"  Wouldn't  we  come  home,  Ben,"  I  asked, 


242       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  if  it  rained  very  hard?  "  The  idea  of  with- 
standing a  soaking  rain-storm  of  a  day  or  two 
had  never  occurred  to  me  until  that  moment. 
To  my  notion,  camping  out  was  all  sunshine, 
warmth  and  sweet  air. 

"  You  might,  if  you  want  to,  but  you  don't 
think  that  I  would  come  chasing  home  for  a 
shower,  do  you?  You  would  make  a  healthy 
guide,  if  you  are  afraid  of  getting  your  skin 
wet." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  afraid,"  I  replied.  "  I  had 
never  thought  of  stormy  weather." 

"  Perhaps  we  had  better  take  a  tent  and 
make  a  shack,  too,"  Ben  suggested,  "  then  we 
will  be  fixed  for  almost  any  kind  of  weather." 

The  next  two  days  were  busy  ones  for  us 
both.  We  had  to  lay  in  a  store  of  provisions 
and  overhaul  the  tent,  which  was  an  old  one 
that  Ben  had  not  used  for  several  years. 

I  whittled  an  entire  new  lot  of  tent  pegs 
and  felt  quite  like  an  Indian  making  a  wig- 
wam. 

The  third  day  after  the  expedition  had  been 
proposed  by  Ben,  we  loaded  our  outfit  into 


Camping  With  Old  Ben          243 

the  express  wagon,  and  father  drove  us  to 
what  was  called  the  great  woods.  The  latter 
part  of  the  journey  had  to  be  made  through 
pastures  over  an  old  wood  road  and  I  got  out 
and  opened  the  gates  or  took  down  the  bars 
between  the  pastures. 

We  arrived  upon  the  outskirts  of  this  wil- 
derness, as  it  seemed  to  me,  in  the  afternoon 
and  at  once  set  to  work  on  our  camp. 

When  we  had  unloaded  our  camp  supplies, 
and  father  and  the  old  express  wagon  had 
disappeared  between  the  tree  trunks,  Ben 
looked  critically  about  us. 

"  This  isn't  just  an  ideal  camping  spot," 
he  said,  "  but  I  guess  it  will  have  to  do  for 
to-night.  We  haven't  much  time  to  look 
about.  We  will  just  camp  here  to-night,  and 
to-morrow  we  can  look  around  a  bit.  I'll  put 
up  the  tent,  and  you  go  and  look  for  a  spring. 

"  I  usually  find  the  spring  first  and  then 
pitch  the  tent  near  it,  but  I  haven't  time  to 
look  for  one  to-night  so  we  will  trust  to  luck. 

"  See  the  top  of  those  black  ashes  yonder, 
you  look  over  there.  It  is  low  ground,  and 


244       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

black  ash  always  grows  in  a  moist  spot,  so  I 
presume  you  will  find  either  a  small  brook  or 
a  spring  somewhere  near." 

It  was  only  a  few  rods  away,  almost  within 
sight  of  our  prospective  camp,  so  I  hurried 
off,  glad  that  Ben  had  thought  me  capable  of 
doing  an  important  part  of  getting  our  first 
camp  ready. 

The  black  ashes  proved  to  be  on  moist  land, 
as  Ben  had  predicted,  but  there  was  no  well 
defined  waterway,  although  the  ground  was 
soft  and  swampy. 

I  circled  about,  quartering  like  a  fox  hound, 
as  Ben  had  taught  me  to  do  when  looking  for 
anything  in  the  woods,  but  no  spring  could  I 
find.  I  was  loath  to  give  up  and  be  beaten  in 
this  my  first  attempt  in  helping,  but  finally 
was  obliged  to  turn  back  without  having  dis- 
covered water. 

I  had  gone  but  a  few  rods  from  camp,  or 
so  it  seemed  to  me,  and  was  quite  sure  of  the 
direction  back  to  my  starting  point. 

I  hastened,  for  it  was  getting  towards  twi- 
light, and  long  black  shadows  were  already 


Camping  With  Old  Ben          245 

creeping  through  the  woods.  Somehow  it 
seemed  mighty  lonesome  away  from  Ben  al- 
though I  would  not  have  admitted  it  for  the 
world. 

To  my  great  astonishment  I  found  that 
camp  did  not  lie  just  beyond  some  spruces  as 
I  had  thought,  so  I  turned  back  to  my  start- 
ing point  and  tried  another  direction,  but  that 
seemed  to  lead  me  still  deeper  into  the  woods. 

This  would  never  do,  I  must  be  more  care- 
ful, so  I  went  back  to  a  clump  of  birches  that 
I  had  just  started  from,  to  try  it  over  again, 
but  to  my  dismay  they  were  not  the  same 
birches,  but  a  new  clump. 

How  long  and  black  the  shadows  were. 
How  still  it  was ;  I  must  hurry.  So  I  started 
on  a  run  in  a  new  direction  which  I  felt  sure 
would  bring  me  to  camp. 

As  soon  as  I  began  running,  my  alarm, 
which  had  not  been  great  up  to  that  point, 
increased  tenfold,  and  I  ran  hither  and  thither, 
like  a  deer,  taking  almost  no  note  of  land- 
marks, as  Ben  had  taught  me  to  do,  but  trying 
to  cover  as  many  rods  as  possible  in  the  short- 


246       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

est  time.  I  scratched  my  hands  and  face  in 
the  underbrush  and  twice  went  head  over  heels 
upon  the  ground,  but  that  was  nothing. 

In  a  short  time  I  was  back  again  at  the 
clump  of  birches,  so  I  tried  another  direction, 
but  came  right  back  to  the  same  place. 

It  was  terrible;  did  all  the  paths  in  the 
woods  lead  right  back  to  this  spot?  Then  it 
dawned  upon  me,  I  was  running  about  in  a 
circle. 

I  had  read  of  such  cases  in  books.  Of  how 
men  became  lost  in  the  woods  and  ran  around 
and  around  in  a  circle  until  they  dropped  of 
fatigue.  Suddenly  the  sweet  green  woods 
with  its  lengthening  shadows  seemed  to 
stretch  out  in  every  direction  for  a  million 
miles.  I  was  the  only  living  creature  in  all 
that  vast  solitude  unless  it  was  filled  with 
bears,  wolves,  ghosts  and  hobgoblins.  Such 
a  wiljd  terror  as  I  have  never  known  before  or 
since  seized  me.  My  hair  seemed  to  stand 
up,  my  teeth  chattered,  my  heart  thumped 
away  at  my  ribs  as  though  it  would  jump 
through  between  them ;  I  seemed  as  small  as  a 


Camping  With  Old  Ben          247 

sand  flea  in  the  middle  of  a  desert.  Never, 
never  as  long  as  the  world  stood,  would  I  be 
able  to  get  out  of  this  hateful  woods. 

At  last  the  silence  and  the  terror  of  it  grew 
so  upon  me,  that  I  lifted  up  my  voice  and 
yelled  like  a  savage.  I  did  not  give  one  shout 
and  then  listen  to  see  if  it  was  answered  but 
bellowed  at  the  top  of  my  lungs,  drawing  my 
breath  with  great  sobs  between  the  deafening 
passages  of  my  distress. 

"  Hello,  that  you,  Harry? "  cried  a  cheer- 
ful voice  that  was  so  near  to  me  that  I  ceased 
my  bellowing  instantly. 

Stifling  my  sobs  as  best  I  could  and  wiping 
the  tears  from  my  cheeks  with  the  back  of  my 
hand,  I  rushed  towards  the  spot  from  whence 
came  the  voice. 

"  Have  you  treed  a  panther,  Harry,"  he 
asked,  "  or  was  it  a  pack  of  Apaches  that  I 
just  heard?  " 

"  You  needn't  laugh  at  me,"  I  blubbered. 
"  I  have  been  lost.  How  did  you  find  me  so 
quick? " 

"  I  find  you,  I  find  you,  boy !     Why,  I 


248       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

haven't  been  looking  for  you.  I  guess  you 
found  yourself." 

"  Well,  how  come  you  away  off  here  when 
I  left  you  making  camp,  miles  away  from 
here? "  I  asked. 

Ben  very  considerately  stifled  a  laugh  and 
sneezed  instead.  Then  motioned  to  me  to 
come  to  him. 

"  What  do  you  call  that?  "  he  asked,  point- 
ing to  the  tent  which  was  already  up,  although 
it  had  been  screened  from  me  by  some  trees. 

"  That's  the  tent,"  I  replied,  feeling  that 
I  was  being  made  a  fool  of,  "  but  you  have 
moved  it.  This  isn't  the  place  where  we  were 
going  to  pitch  it." 

"  The  very  same,"  replied  Ben.  "  You've 
lost  your  compass,  Harry.  You  have  been 
clear  around  camp  and  come  out  on  the  op- 
posite side  from  which  you  left,  so  everything 
looks  different. 

"  I  heard  you  coming — sounded  like  a 
moose,  and  I  was  just  going  to  halloo  to  you 
when  you  let  out  that  yell.  Those  lungs  of 
yours  can't  be  beaten. 


Camping  With  Old  Ben          249 

"  When  you  are  in  the  woods  you  must 
notice  peculiarities  in  the  trees  and  that  will 
keep  you  from  getting  lost.  An  old  stump,  a 
spreading  spruce,  an  ironwood  tree,  which  is 
not  common,  a  hillock  or  a  rock,  all  these 
things  are  the  guide-boards  in  the  woods  that 
tell  you  the  way  back  to  camp. 

"  But  you  needn't  feel  cut  up  about  it, 
Harry.  There  isn't  any  danger  that  you  will 
get  so  lost  in  this  county  that  I  could  not  hear 
you  screech.  Now  you  may  look  me  up 
some  dead  sticks  for  firewood,  if  you  can." 

Ben  soon  had  a  bright  fire  going  between 
three  stones  that  he  had  arranged  forming 
three  sides  of  a  square. 

"  It  is  always  a  good  plan  to  place  stones 
in  that  way,  Harry,"  he  said,  "  so  your  fire 
won't  keep  tumbling  down  as  fast  as  it  burns. 
If  we  were  real  savages,  instead  of  make-be- 
lieves, starting  the  fire  would  be  quite  a  proc- 
ess, and  it  might  take  half  an  hour.  We 
would  have  to  use  a  flint  and  some  tinder,  and 
it  would  be  quite  a  trick." 

I  opened  a  can  of  salmon  and  it  was  soon 


250      Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

sending  out  a  fine  odor,  as  it  sizzled  in  the 
frying-pan. 

"  Seems  as  though  I  could  eat  it,  frying- 
pan  and  all,"  I  said. 

Ben  laughed.  "That's  the  tonic  of  the 
woods,"  he  said.  "  It  beats  any  medicine  that 
I  ever  heard  of  for  a  poor  appetite." 

When  Ben  had  fried  some  potatoes,  and 
made  some  coffee,  our  supper  was  ready. 

We  ate  it  upon  a  flat  rock  and  I  do  not 
think  that  anything  that  I  ever  ate  at  home 
tasted  so  good. 

After  supper  Ben  cut  two  small  hemlocks, 
and  dragged  them  near  the  tent,  and  we  set 
to  work  to  strip  them  of  all  their  small 
branches  and  needles. 

"  There  isn't  anything  in  the  world  that 
makes  as  soft  and  sweet  a  bed  as  hemlock 
needles,"  explained  Ben.  "  The  odor  is  a 
sort  of  sleeping  potion,  too ;  it  always  does  me 
good  to  sleep  on  either  hemlock  or  pine 
needles." 

When  we  had  a  large  pile  of  the  sweet, 
springy  hemlock  plumes,  we  carried  them  into 


Camping  With  Old  Ben          251 

the  tent,  and  Ben  showed  me  how  to  cover  the 
pile  with  the  blanket,  and  then  tuck  the  edges 
under  so  that  when  we  laid  upon  it,  our  bed 
would  not  flatten  out  as  much  as  it  would 
otherwise  do.  Our  second  blanket  we  put  on 
top  of  the  first  one,  and  Ben  called  it,  "  the 
spread." 

The  bed  now  being  ready,  we  went  outside 
and  piled  a  lot  of  wood  upon  the  camp  fire 
and  sat  down  by  it,  to  enjoy  a  real  camp  fire 
talk. 

"  Of  course,  we  don't  need  the  fire  to-night 
to  keep  us  warm,"  said  Ben,  "  but  it  looks  so 
cheerful  that  I  love  to  watch  it  burn  and  see 
the  pictures  come  and  go.  Besides  it  helps  to 
keep  off  the  mosquitoes. 

"  A  bright  fire  is  good  to  cook  with,  but  a 
smudge  keeps  off  mosquitoes.  To  make  a 
smudge,  put  on  some  punk,  or,  if  you  cannot 
find  that,  a  bunch  of  green  grass." 

I  pulled  a  handful  of  grass  and  was  aston- 
ished to  see  how  quickly  a  dark  wreath  of 
smoke  was  curling  up  through  the  treetops. 

"  The  Indians  always  used  fires  for  sig- 


252       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

rials,"  explained  Ben,  "  and  they  could  com- 
municate several  miles  away  by  means  of 
them.  This  was  their  telegraph. 

"  What  I  enjoy  about  camping  out,"  con- 
tinued Ben,  "  is  the  wonderful  mysterious  life 
all  about  us.  The  flowers,  the  trees,  the 
grass,  the  birds,  the  squirrels  and  all  the  four- 
footed  creatures.  God  made  the  trees  to 
shelter  man  and  to  rustle  their  leaves  above 
his  head,  and  it  is  a  pity  that  we  have  to  cut 
down  so  many  of  them.  Why,  Harry,  there 
is  more  wonder  to  me  in  an  ant-hill  than  there 
is  in  the  whole  city  of  New  York.  The 
Brooklyn  bridge  and  the  tall  blocks,  and  the 
great  churches  are  not  nearly  as  hard  for  man 
to  build  as  it  is  for  the  ants  to  do  some  of  the 
things  that  they  do. 

"  There  is  music,  too,  in  the  woods.  The 
glad  trilling  of  birds,  and  the  joyous  chatter 
of  squirrels.  The  long  roll  of  the  cock  par- 
tridge, and  the  merry  tattoo  of  the  wood- 
pecker. Then  the  wind  and  the  waters  are 
always  talking  and  the  leaves  are  telling  se- 
crets overhead. 


Camping  With  Old  Ben          253 

"  There  is  always  a  mystery,  too,  in  the 
woods.  Something  to  keep  you  guessing. 
Was  that  pitter-patter  in  the  leaves  a  red 
squirrel,  a  chipmunk,  or  just  a  shy  little 
wood  mouse?  How  quickly  the  ear  learns  to 
distinguish  the  steady  even  trot  of  the  fox,  and 
the  hop  of  the  rabbit,  the  rustle  of  a  twig  that 
denotes  a  bird,  and  the  bending  of  the  bough 
that  tells  you  where  a  squirrel  has  just 
sprung. 

"  The  signs,  the  sights  and  the  sounds  of 
the  woods  are  among  earth's  sweetest  se- 
crets. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  that  I  would  like  to 
be  the  wood  nymph  and  have  charge  of  all 
these  furred  and  feathered  creatures  myself." 

"  Who  is  the  wood  nymph,  Ben? "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  just  a  beautiful  young  lady  who  lives 
in  the  woods,  and  looks  out  for  all  the  wild 
things  and  loves  and  pities  them,"  replied 
Ben.  "Did  I  ever  tell  you  how  'twas  the 
squirrel  got  his  brush,  Harry?  " 

"  No,"  I  exclaimed  all  excitement,  "  please 
tell  me." 


254       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

Ben  filled  his  pipe,  and  lighted  it  with  a 
stick  from  our  camp  fire  and  then  began. 

"  Well,  it  was  this  way.  One  morning  a 
red  squirrel  was  sitting  upon  a  limb,  chatter- 
ing away  for  dear  life,  and  having  the  finest 
time  in  the  world.  Nuts  were  thick  as  spat- 
ter on  the  tree  and  the  sun  was  shining 
brightly,  and  the  squirrel  was  so  glad  that  he 
didn't  know  what  to  do  about  it,  so  he  just 
frisked  and  chattered.  By  and  by,  along 
came  the  wood  thrush.  '  Hold  on,  Mr.  Scat- 
terbrains,'  cried  the  wood  thrush, '  I  wonder  if 
you  know  what  a  noise  you  are  making? 
Why,  if  I  had  such  a  voice  as  you  have  got  I 
would  never  let  any  one  hear  me  using  it.  It 
fairly  sets  my  nerves  on  edge.  Why  don't 
you  sing  like  this? '  Wood  Thrush  swelled 
out  his  breast,  and  poured  forth  such  a  sweet 
song,  that  the  poor  squirrel  saw  at  once 
that  his  voice  was  very  harsh  and  dis- 
cordant. 

"  '  There,'  said  the  wood  thrush,  ending  up 
with  a  fine  trill, '  now  I  would  keep  quiet,  if  I 
were  you.' 


Camping  With  Old  Ben  255 

"  Well,  the  wood  thrush  soon  flew  away, 
and  the  squirrel  felt  so  ashamed  that  he  didn't 
even  squeak  again  that  morning. 

"  Pretty  soon,  along  came  Blue  Jay  and  he 
says  to  Mr.  Red  Squirrel,  '  What  a  rusty  old 
red  coat  you  have  got,  Mr.  Squirrel.  If  I  was 
you  I  think  I  would  visit  the  tailor  and  get  a 
new  suit,  your  old  one  is  really  quite  dull. 
Why  don't  you  have  a  suit  like  mine? '  and 
Blue  Jay  flashed  his  bright  blue  uniform  in 
the  sunlight. 

"  Then  Mr.  Red  Squirrel  saw  that  he  not 
only  had  no  voice,  but  that  his  coat,  upon 
which  he  had  prided  himself,  was  quite  dull 
compared  with  that  of  the  blue  jay. 

"  In  those  far  off  times  Mr.  Red  Squirrel's 
tail  was  not  the  fine  brush  that  it  is  now,  but  a 
smooth  tail  like  that  of  the  rat.  So  he  really 
had  nothing  to  be  proud  of. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Red  Squirrel  felt  so  bad  about 
it  that  he  finally  went  to  the  wood  nymph. 

' '  Dear  Wood  Nymph/  he  said,  '  I  am 
very  sad.  I  have  no  fine  voice  like  Wood 
Thrush,  and  I  have  no  gay  coat  like  Blue 


256       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

Jay,  and  they  are  all  making  fun  of 
me/ 

' '  I  am  sorry,  Red  Squirrel,'  said  the  wood 
nymph  in  such  a  sweet  voice  that  Red  Squir- 
rel at  once  felt  better.  '  It  is  very  impolite 
of  them  to  put  on  airs  about  graces  that  I 
gave  them.  I  shall  have  to  speak  to  them 
about  it.  But  you  are  really  quite  as  pretty 
as  they  are  in  your  way.  Why,  don't  you 
see,  Mr.  Squirrel,  you  have  four  legs,  and 
they  have  but  two?  You  are  much  better 
off  in  that  respect.' 

"  '  That  is  so,'  replied  Red  Squirrel  rather 
proudly,  and  he  gave  a  great  jump  just  to 
show  how  nimble  his  legs  were.  '  If  I  only 
had  a  beautiful  tail  like  a  peacock  I  think  I 
would  be  perfectly  happy.' 

"  '  The  peacock's  tail  would  not  do  for  you 
at  all,'  said  the  wood  nymph, '  but  I  will  make 
yours  over  and  it  shall  be  your  flag  that  you 
can  wave  defiantly  at  Wood  Thrush  and  Blue 
Jay  whenever  they  tell  you  you  are  not 
beautiful.' 

"  So  Mr.  Red  Squirrel  hopped  upon  the 


Camping  With  Old  Ben          257 

beautiful  wood  nymph's  shoulder,  and  she 
covered  his  eyes  with  one  hand,  while  with  the 
other  she  stroked  his  tail. 

"  *  How  long  will  it  take  you? '  asked  the 
squirrel. 

"  *  See/  replied  the  wood  nymph,  and  she 
uncovered  his  eyes  and  Mr.  Red  Squirrel  saw 
that  he  had  the  most  wonderful  bushy  tail  in 
the  woods,  that  is,  for  his  size. 

"  Then  how  he  frisked  about  and  chattered, 
and  all  the  time  he  kept  his  tail  twitching  and 
waving  so  all  the  wood  folks  might  see  how 
gay  he  had  become.  He  was  so  delighted 
with  his  new  tail  that  he  did  not  even  stop  to 
thank  the  wood  nymph,  but  ran  away  to  show 
it  to  Wood  Thrush,  and  to  Blue  Jay. 

"  When  the  poor  chipmunk  saw  what  the 
wood  nymph  had  done  for  Red  Squirrel,  he 
was  much  dissatisfied  with  his  own  smooth 
tail,  so  he,  too,  went  to  the  wood  nymph. 

"  *  Dear  wood  nymph,*  cried  Chippy,  '  my 
tail  is  very  homely,  won't  you  please  fix  it  like 
Red  Squirrel's?' 

"  So  the  kind  wood  nymph  covered  Chippy's 


258       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

eyes  with  her  hand  while  she  made  his  tail 
more  fluffy  and  beautiful. 

"  *  It  isn't  nearly  as  large  as  Red  Squir- 
rel's,' said  Chippy  when  she  had  finished. 

"  *  Why,  you  are  not  half  as  large  as  Red 
Squirrel  yourself,'  replied  the  wood  nymph 
laughing.  '  I  guess  it  is  large  enough  for 
your  size.' 

"  But  Chippy  was  not  satisfied,  so  the  wood 
nymph  finally  painted  his  sides  with  several 
bright  stripes,  and  that  is  how  he  became  little 
Striped  Sides. 

"  There  is  another  pretty  good  story,"  con- 
tinued Ben.  "  It  is  about  how  the  skunk  got 
his  scent.  I  presume  people  have  often  won- 
dered. 

"  One  day,  years  and  years  ago,  a  skunk  sat 
down  under  a  juniper  bush  to  think,  and  he 
quite  naturally  got  to  thinking  about  himself. 

"  *  What  a  poor  stupid  old  thing  I  am,'  he 
said.  '  I  am  the  most  defenseless  of  all  the 
forest  folks.  I  cannot  run  away  from  my 
enemies  like  the  rabbit,  because  my  legs  are 
short.  I  cannot  bite  like  the  woodchuck  be- 


Camping  With  Old  Ben          259 

cause  my  teeth  are  not  so  sharp.  I  cannot  go 
into  my  shell  like  the  turtle  when  I  am  threat- 
ened because  I  have  no  shell.  I  have  no  nim- 
ble wits  like  the  fox.  If  something  is  not 
done  my  kind  will  be  exterminated.' 

"  When  the  kind  wood  nymph  saw  the 
skunk's  sorrowful  face,  she  was  troubled,  for 
it  saddens  her  to  see  any  of  her  creatures 
grieve. 

"  She  pondered  long  and  deeply  upon  the 
subject,  and  then  a  bright  smile  overspread 
her  face.  When  the  skunk  saw  the  smile,  he 
was  glad  because  he  knew  that  the  good  wood 
nymph  had  thought  of  something  fine  for 
him. 

"  '  Mr.  Skunk/  said  the  wood  nymph  in  her 
sweetest  tones,  '  I  am  most  sorry  that  you 
were  left  so  defenseless,  and  I  have  thought 
of  a  plan.  I  will  give  you  this  wonderful 
smelling  bottle,  and  whenever  any  of  your 
enemies  trouble  you,  just  take  out  the  cork.' 

"  Mr.  Skunk  took  the  magic  bottle,  and 
hurried  away,  eager  to  try  it  upon  some  one 
of  his  enemies. 


260       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  He  did  not  have  to  wait  long,  for  soon 
Mr.  Red  Fox  came  creeping  by. 

" '  Ah,  here  is  a  snap,'  he  said.  '  My 
breakfast  already  cooked.  I  do  believe  that 
the  skunk  is  the  stupidest  animal  in ' 

"  But  Mr.  Fox  did  not  finish  his  remarks 
for  just  at  that  point,  when  the  fox  was  about 
to  jump,  Mr.  Skunk  took  out  the  stopper 
from  his  magic  bottle. 

"  Mr.  Red  Fox  turned  a  double  somer- 
sault in  his  haste  to  leave  that  part  of  the 
woods,  and  he  ran  away  yelping,  and  pawing 
at  his  eyes  and  nose. 

"  To  this  very  day  Mr.  Red  Fox  always 
takes  off  his  hat  when  he  meets  a  skunk,  as  do 
all  the  other  animals  in  the  woods. 

"  Camp  fire  is  getting  low,  Harry,  I  guess 
we  had  better  turn  in." 

We  scrambled  into  the  tent,  like  two  boys, 
and  threw  ourselves  upon  the  luxuriant  bed 
of  hemlock.  Ben  drew  the  outside  blanket 
over  us  and  tucked  it  in  and  in  fewer  minutes 
than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  I  myself  was  standing 
before  the  wood  nymph  asking  that  I  might 
be  equipped  with  wings  like  the  eagle. 


MR.  Fox  DID  NOT  FINISH  His  REMARKS 


CHAPTER  XIV 
FOREST  FOOTFALLS 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Forest  Footfalls 

WHAT  glorious  days  those  were  when  Ben 
and  I  wandered  in  the  mysterious  woods 
searching  out  its  secrets,  becoming  each  day 
better  acquainted  with  the  birds  and  squirrels, 
the  rabbits  and  mice,  and  all  the  innumerable 
family  of  the  wood  folks. 

Little  by  little  I  learned  to  see  with  the 
eyes  of  a  woodsman. 

To  separate  the  rabbit  from  the  brown 
brake  in  which  he  squatted,  the  bird  from  the 
leaves  in  which  it  sought  to  screen  itself,  the 
squirrel  from  the  knot  that  he  tried  to  imper- 
sonate. 

"  The  only  way  to  see  things  in  the  woods," 
said  Ben  one  day  as  we  sat  on  an  old  log  in  the 
leafy  green  depths,  "  is  to  sit  still  and  let  them 
come  to  you.  We  folks  with  all  our  cunning 
are  so  much  more  stupid  than  the  wild  crea- 


264       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

tures  in  the  woods  that  they  always  see  or  hear 
us  first,  and  that  is  why  the  forest  often  seems 
to  be  deserted  when  we  pass  through. 

"  Perhaps  birds  have  been  singing  and 
chirping,  and  squirrels  have  been  chattering 
a  moment  before,  but  as  soon  as  the  clumsy 
foot  of  man  comes  pounding  through  the 
woods,  all  becomes  as  quiet  as  though  unin- 
habited. 

"  A  moose,  large  and  clumsy  as  he  seems, 
can  travel  more  quietly  in  the  woods  than  the 
untrained  man.  One  moment  the  great  bull 
will  be  standing  behind  a  tree  looking  out 
curiously  at  you  as  you  go  thrashing  through 
the  aisles  of  the  forest ;  the  next  instant,  with- 
out the  slightest  sound  of  a  footfall  or  the 
snapping  of  a  twig,  he  fades  away  like  a  gray 
shadow  and  disappears  like  a  ghost. 

"  It  would  surprise  you,  Harry,  to  know 
how  many  eyes  are  watching  as  you  go 
through  the  woods.  Most  of  the  wild  crea- 
tures do  not  flee  away  in  panic,  but  secrete 
themselves  cunningly  and  watch  to  see  what 
this  strange  creature,  man,  is  doing. 


Forest  Footfalls  265 

"  The  squirrel  flattens  himself  out  on  a 
branch,  and  a  limb  two  inches  in  diameter  will 
entirely  hide  him;  or  perhaps  he  may  make 
believe  he  is  a  knot  upon  the  tree,  and  he  will 
do  it  so  well  that  you  will  probably  be  de- 
ceived. 

"  The  rabbit  usually  hides  in  plain  sight, 
but  you  think  him  a  stone  or  a  continuation 
of  the  end  of  an  old  log. 

"  The  owl  passes  for  a  bunch  of  last  year's 
leaves  or  a  gnarl  on  the  tree.  The  principal 
art  in  hiding  in  the  woods  is  to  keep  perfectly 
still  and  nature  has  so  fashioned  the  coats  of 
the  birds  and  the  four-footed  creatures  that 
they  blend  with  the  friendly  shadows. 

"  Go  into  the  woods  and  sit  perfectly  still 
for  half  an  hour  and  see  what  a  change  will 
come. 

"  Perhaps  your  first  caller  is  a  little  brown 
bird  who  will  come  fluttering  down  through 
the  boughs  to  get  a  better  look  at  you. 

"  Then  the  wood  mouse  will  slip  slyly  out 
of  his  den  at  the  root  of  a  tree  and  peep  curi- 
ously. 


266       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  Soon  you  may  hear  a  pitter-patter  in  the 
leaves.  That  is  a  squirrel ;  it  may  be  a  weasel, 
but  it  is  more  likely  to  be  a  squirrel.  If  the 
noise  is  more  like  a  strut  than  a  pitter-patter, 
it  is  a  partridge  and  it  may  be  feeding,  look- 
ing here  and  there  in  the  ends  of  rotten  logs 
and  stumps  for  grubs. 

"  If  the  sounds  are  further  apart  and  more 
uneven,  it  is  probably  a  rabbit.  The  steady 
trot,  trot,  trot,  of  a  fox  is  always  easy  to  rec- 
ognize. 

"  It  is  as  easy  to  recognize  these  little  foot- 
falls in  the  woods,  once  you  have  learned 
them,  as  it  is  to  tell  the  step  of  your  father  or 
mother  in  your  own  home." 

"  Don't  you  ever  get  deceived,  Ben? "  I 
asked.  For  to  me  nearly  all  the  sounds  in  the 
woods  were  merely  noises,  although  I  recog- 
nized most  of  the  bird  songs  and  their  call 
notes. 

"  Oh,  yes,  even  the  best  ear  is  deceived 
sometimes,"  replied  Ben,  "  but  you  must 
learn  in  the  woods  to  hear  or  see  a  little  part 
of  the  truth  and  supply  the  rest. 


Forest  Footfalls  267 

"  Then  you  will  know  that  these  gray  and 
brown  streaks  that  you  occasionally  see  flit- 
ting across  the  path,  or  just  gliding  behind 
some  bush,  are  not  fancies  but  real  living 
creatures,  all  eyes,  ears  and  noses  and  quiver- 
ing with  alertness.  Then  every  time  that  a 
twig  snaps,  brake  rustles,  or  a  bough  bends 
you  will  know  what  it  means. 

"  It  is  little  things  and  not  large  ones  in  the 
woods  that  tell  the  wonderful  story  of  na- 
ture's secret.  Any  one  can  follow  a  track  in 
the  new  snow,  but  only  the  trained  trailer  can 
follow  it  upon  bare  ground. 
.  "  The  things  the  trailer  sees  you  would  pass 
by  as  unimportant.  It  may  be  a  broken 
twig,  some  moss  brushed  off  a  log,  a  bit  of 
bark  from  a  tree,  but  these  little  things  tell 
which  way  the  trail  leads." 

"  Looks  to  me  a  good  deal  like  finding  a 
needle  in  a  haymow,"  I  ventured. 

Ben  laughed.  "  It  used  to  seem  so  to  me," 
he  said  cheerily,  "  but  you  see  I  am  an  old 
man,  and  you  are  only  a  small  boy.  All 
things  come  to  him  who  waits,  and  a  boy  can 


268       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

learn  much  by  keeping  his  eyes  and  ears 
open." 

That  evening  after  supper  we  piled  our 
camp  fire  high  with  dry  limbs  that  I  had  gath- 
ered for  the  purpose,  and  old  Ben  told  me 
camp  fire  tales  until  all  thoughts  of  sleep  left 
me  and  I  was  as  wide  awake  as  an  owl. 

Finally,  he  turned  in  and  I  sat  there  in  the 
cheerful  firelight  with  my  back  against  an  old 
log  listening  to  the  pleasant  night  sounds  and 
thinking  of  what  a  wonderful  place  the  forest 
was,  now  I  was  learning  to  love  it. 

The  great  pines,  upon  the  bluff  back  of  the 
camp,  sighed  mournfully  and  the  night  winds 
answered  them  in  low  soughing  tones. 

Far  away  in  the  woods  a  fox  barked  his 
sharp,  short  bark.  The  great  horned  owl 
sounded  his  hunting  cry  and  then  listened  for 
the  prey  to  betray  its  whereabouts.  A  little 
screech  owl  whistled  shrilly  and  a  tree  frog 
took  up  the  same  strain.  The  tree  frog's 
song  was  still  trembling  in  my  ears  when  I 
fell  asleep  beside  the  camp  fire  and  dreamed 
a  terrible  dream. 


Forest  Footfalls  269 

I  was  a  hunter  in  the  African  jungles  and 
was  lying  by  my  camp  fire  asleep  when  a  huge 
lion  began  creeping  slowly  upon  me,  intent 
upon  devouring  me  or  carrying  me  off  into 
the  jungle  alive. 

I  was  powerless  to  move  or  cry  out  and  the 
lion  drew  nearer  and  nearer. 

The  horror  of  the  situation  caused  me  to 
wake  to  what  seemed  to  me  quite  as  bad  a 
plight  as  that  in  my  dream. 

I  was  not  an  African  lion  hunter,  that  was 
plain,  but  only  a  terribly  scared  small  boy 
who  had  fallen  asleep  in  the  woods.  The 
camp  fire  had  gone  out  and  there  was  nothing 
ominous  in  that,  but  there  was  another  consid- 
eration and  here  was  the  difficulty. 

A  mighty  animal,  probably  a  bear,  was 
standing  guard  over  me.  I  could  see  the  out- 
line of  the  massive  head  against  the  sky,  the 
glow  of  two  large  yellow  eyes,  and  could 
feel  the  hot  breath  of  the  beast  upon  my 
face. 

Then  I  remembered  dozens  of  horrible 
stories  that  I  had  read,  of  how  wild  creatures 


270       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

stood  above  sleeping  hunters  until  they  awoke 
or  moved,  when  they  sprang  upon  them  and 
tore  them  to  bits. 

My  tongue  grew  parched  and  clove  to  the 
roof  of  my  mouth.  My  heart  beat  so  hard 
that  I  knew  the  bear  must  hear  it,  and  a  chill 
like  ice  water  stole  down  my  back. 

Probably  I  lay  like  this  for  five  seconds, 
then  a  stratagem  came  to  me  which  terror 
helped  me  put  into  execution. 

Our  camp  was  on  a  side  hill  and  the  en- 
trance of  the  tent  was  below  me.  With  a 
sudden  motion  I  rolled  over  and  over  towards 
the  tent  door,  and  at  the  same  time  I  gave  a 
yell  that  made  the  vocal  attempts  of  the  great 
horned  owl  seem  like  whispers. 

Over  and  over  I  spun  like  a  top  until  I 
struck  fairly  upon  the  bunk,  bringing  Ben  to 
his  feet  as  though  steel  springs  had  been 
under  him. 

"  Land  of  Liberty,  Harry,  what  is  it, 
night-horse?"  That  was  what  Ben  called 
nightmare. 

"  A  bear  in  camp,  a  bear,"  I  gasped  with 


Forest  Footfalls  271 

just  breath  enough  left  to  give  the  informa- 
tion. 

We  could  hear  some  large  animal  tumbling 
about  our  dishes  and  sniffing  hungrily. 

"  Don't  sound  to  me  exactly  like  a  bear," 
said  Ben  in  his  ordinary  tone  of  voice. 

"Ben,  Ben,  keep  still,"  I  gasped,  "we 
haven't  any  gun." 

Ben  chuckled.  "  I'm  not  afraid  of  bears," 
he  said.  "  This  is  a  good,  kind  bear,  Harry. 

"  Come  here,  bear,"  he  continued  snapping 
his  fingers  and  uttering  a  low  whistle. 

A  great  brute  as  large  as  a  yearling  calf 
came  bounding  into  the  tent  and  with  a 
yell  of  terror  I  dove  into  a  corner  behind 
Ben. 

"  Now,  Harry,  stop  screeching  and  let  me 
introduce  you  to  this  good,  kind  bear.  His 
name  is  Ponto,  and  he  wants  to  kiss  you. 
What  a  long  tail  he  has  for  a  bear! " 

I  uncovered  my  eyes  and  beheld  Ponto,  a 
great  Newfoundland  dog  belonging  to  one  of 
our  neighbors. 

"  You  see  you  will  have  to  study  forest 


2J2       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

footfalls  a  little  more,  Harry,"  chuckled  Ben 
as  he  smoothed  Ponto's  coat;  "  then  you  will 
be  able  to  tell  a  mastadon  from  a  field  mouse 
when  it  comes  into  camp." 


CHAPTER  XV 
IN  THE  HUNTER'S  MOON 


CHAPTER  XV 

In  the  Hunter's  Moon 

OF  all  the  seasons  of  the  year  that  make 
the  heart  glad,  I  know  of  none  better  than 
October,  the  time  of  the  Hunter's  Moon,  the 
season  of  fulfillment. 

Then  all  the  promises  of  springtime  have 
been  redeemed;  then  all  the  treasures  of 
nature  are  poured  into  the  lap  of  the  glad 
earth  and  man  has  but  to  eat,  drink  and  be 
merry. 

Then  the  corn  is  stacked  in  the  field,  a  thou- 
sand Indian  wigwams  with  golden  pumpkins 
gleaming  in  between.  The  barn  is  fragrant 
with  the  new  hay.  Granaries  are  full  to  over- 
flowing with  all  the  treasures  of  Ceres,  while 
Pomona's  gifts  hang  bright  red,  yellow,  and 
green,  in  all  the  loaded  orchards. 

Even  better  than  these  are  the  walnut  and 
chestnut  groves,  with  hair-raising  climbs  into 


276       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

the  tops  of  tall  trees  for  the  treasure  of  the 
forest. 

The  cranberry  bog,  too,  is  bright  with  ber- 
ries, and  here  one  may  not  only  pick  ber- 
ries, but  also  watch  the  muskrats  piling  up 
their  houses  against  the  winter  cold,  which 
will  soon  be  upon  them. 

The  muskrat  is  particularly  fortunate,  for 
he  not  only  lives  in  this  queer  house,  but  also 
eats  it,  for  it  is  partly  built  of  the  roots  that 
he  best  likes. 

On  these  wonderful  autumn  nights,  when 
the  sky  was  so  studded  with  stars  that  there 
seemed  not  room  for  one  more,  when  the  air 
was  rich  with  the  smell  of  the  ripe  corn,  and 
the  perfume  of  ripe  fruit,  old  Ben  and  I  used 
to  take  long  night  walks,  and  it  was  then  that 
we  did  about  the  only  hunting  that  we  ever 
permitted  ourselves. 

Old  Ben's  philosophy  in  regard  to  the  wild 
life  was  that  each  creature,  and  even  the  bugs 
and  insects,  although  many  of  them  seemed 
worse  than  useless  to  us,  had  their  use.  That 
they  were  put  here  for  some  purpose,  and  that 


In  the  Hunter's  Moon  277 

we  spoiled  the  plan  of  nature  when  we  at- 
tempted to  exterminate  any  of  them. 

He  greatly  astonished  me  one  day  by  say- 
ing that  there  were  not  twenty-five  per  cent, 
as  many  song  and  game  birds  as  there  had 
been  twenty  years  before,  and  that  it  was 
costing  the  government  and  the  farmer  nearly 
a  billion  dollars  a  year  in  loss  of  crops,  fight- 
ing insects  that  had  multiplied  'so  rapidly 
since  the  birds  had  been  depleted  and  could 
not  longer  keep  these  pests  down. 

"  Hunt  vermin,  Harry,  if  you  must  hunt," 
he  would  say,  "  and  let  the  rest  of  God's  crea- 
tures alone." 

One  autumn  the  raccoons  became  so  plen- 
tiful and  did  so  much  damage  upon  my 
father's  farm,  that  old  Ben  declared  them  ver- 
min for  the  time  being,  and  we  had  some  fa- 
mous hunts,  although  we  got  but  one  raccoon 
all  the  autumn. 

We  did  not  so  much  mind  if  the  raccoons 
did  make  holes  in  the  sides  of  the  pumpkins, 
scooping  out  the  seeds  and  eating  them,  or  if 
they  came  into  the  garden  and  made  sad  work 


278       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

in  the  vegetables,  or  ate  sweet  apples.  They 
had  to  live  and  there  was  enough  for  both  us 
and  them,  but  when  they  visited  our  hen  coops 
and  killed  a  dozen  fine  pullets  in  a  single 
night,  even  old  Ben's  anger  was  aroused,  and 
he  and  I  declared  war  upon  the  raccoons. 

Ben's  old  fox  hound  Bugler  was  a  famous 
raccoon  dog,  and  together  with  a  dog  bor- 
rowed from  a  neighbor,  made  up  our  pack. 

We  would  keep  the  dogs  in  the  leash,  and 
go  with  them  to  all  the  neighboring  cornfields. 
We  would  circle  entirely  around  each  field 
and  would  usually  find  a  fresh  raccoon  track 
that  the  dogs  were  all  eagerness  to  follow. 

There  were  several  reasons  why  we  did  not 
get  any  coons.  Sometimes  they  climbed  such 
large  trees  that  we  could  not  cut  them  down 
or  climb  them.  Often  they  holed  in  the 
ledges  near  by,  where  we  could  not  dig  them 
out,  while  frequently  the  dogs  would  lose  the 
scent  after  going  a  short  distance,  or  Bugler 
would  strike  a  fox  track,  and  leave  the  rac- 
coon for  a  fox,  which  he  considered  better 
worth  while. 


In  the  Hunter's  Moon  279 

One  hunt  that  we  had  I  shall  never  forget. 
Thoughts  of  it  even  now  make  my  hair  rise  on 
my  head,  for  it  was  only  old  Ben's  wonderful 
alertness  and  presence  of  mind  that  saved  me 
a  terrible  scratching  from  a  bobcat. 

On  the  particular  night  to  which  I  refer  we 
had  a  varied  experience,  and  one  that  filled 
the  evening  with  thrills  enough  to  satisfy  even 
the  mind  of  a  boy. 

First,  the  dogs  took  a  fresh  trail  at  the  edge 
of  my  father's  cornfield,  and  went  off  at  a 
brisk  pace.  They  soon  holed  the  coon  in 
those  same  ledges  that  had  given  us  so  much 
trouble,  and  we  had  to  try  again. 

After  keeping  the  dogs  upon  a  leash  for  an 
hour  and  not  starting  another  raccoon  we  let 
them  go,  and  they  were  presently  barking 
briskly  in  a  deep  swamp. 

Soon  we  heard  some  large  animal  coming 
rapidly  towards  us,  and  were  all  excitement. 

"  That  is  no  coon,  Harry,"  said  Ben  under 
his  breath.  "  Keep  your  eyes  open,  boy." 

Ben  cocked  his  rifle,  and  stood  listening 
and  watching.  I  strained  my  eyes  in  the 


280       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

direction  of  the  sound,  but  could  make  out 
nothing. 

Presently  there  was  a  rush  of  feet  which 
seemed  to  come  immediately  towards  us,  and 
before  I  had  the  faintest  idea  of  what  game 
was  afoot,  a  beautiful  doe,  with  a  little  dap- 
pled fawn,  stood  panting  at  the  edge  of  the 
bright  rim  of  light  cast  by  our  lanterns. 

For  a  full  minute  they  stood  gazing  wide- 
eyed  and  spellbound  at  the  strange  bright- 
ness, just  as  they  will  at  a  jack. 

The  fawn  crowded  close  to  its  dam,  and 
gazed  up  at  her  with  an  inquiring  look,  but 
the  doe  kept  her  terror-wide  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  light  of  our  lantern,  as  though  her  life  de- 
pended upon  holding  it  with  her  gaze. 

It  was  a  wonderful  picture  and  one  that  I 
shall  never  forget. 

The  bright  patch  of  light,  like  a  picture 
frame,  and  the  two  beautiful  heads  at  its 
centre. 

Then  the  dogs  came  out  of  the  swamp  into 
the  open,  with  a  great  baying  and  the  doe  and 
fawn  fled  precipitately,  going  at  such  a  break- 


In  the  Hunter's  Moon  281 

neck  pace  that  it  would  seem  as  though  they 
must  break  their  legs,  for  it  was  quite  dark  on 
this  particular  evening. 

Ben  explained  after  we  had  caught  the 
dogs  that  a  deer  had  a  wonderful  faculty  for 
running  in  the  dark,  even  through  thick  tim- 
ber, and  that  he  had  never  seen  but  one  deer 
with  a  broken  leg. 

We  took  the  dogs  away  for  a  mile  in  the 
opposite  direction  from  that  in  which  the  deer 
had  fled,  before  letting  them  go. 

Once  more  they  took  to  the  deep  swamp, 
and  soon  they  were  baying  away  again  in  an 
excited  manner. 

As  the  sounds  came  from  one  spot  and  the 
dogs  did  not  seem  to  be  moving,  Ben  said  that 
something  out  of  the  ordinary  was  up.  He 
said  it  did  not  sound  like  "  Up  a  Tree,"  and 
he  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it. 

Five  minutes  of  floundering  about  over 
dead  logs  and  stepping  in  deep  holes  which 
we  could  not  avoid,  and  we  came  up  with  the 
dogs. 

They  were  dancing  about  a  queer  looking 


282       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

object,  very  much  excited,  but  seemed  to  be 
rather  afraid  of  their  game. 

At  the  sight  Ben  rushed  forward  and  began 
whipping  the  dogs  back  with  a  switch  that  he 
broke  from  a  near-by  bush. 

In  the  dim  light  I  could  not  just  make  out 
what  the  queer  game  was,  but  Ben  shouted, 
"  It's  a  porcupine,  Harry.  We  came  just  in 
time  to  save  the  dogs." 

"  Would  he  eat  them?  "  I  asked  in  my  igno- 
rance. 

Ben  laughed.  "  Worse  than  that,"  he  re- 
plied. "  He  would  fill  them  full  of  quills." 

Then  I  went  up  close  and  we  examined  the 
queer  fellow  to  our  hearts'  content. 

I  had  never  seen  a  porcupine  before,  a 
hedgehog  being  the  nearest  approach  that  I 
had  known  to  this  wonderful  wilderness  freak. 

The  hedgehog  is  first  cousin  to  the  porcu- 
pine, but  much  smaller. 

This  specimen  that  Ben  and  I  were  exam- 
ining would  weigh  twenty-five  pounds  and 
was  covered  with  quills  three  or  four  inches 
long.  Ben  told  me  that  they  were  barbed,  so 


In  the  Hunter's  Moon  283 

that  if  they  once  entered  an  object  they  could 
not  easily  be  pulled  out,  but  would  travel 
until  they  came  out  at  the  other  side. 

The  porcupine  lay  flat  down  upon  the 
ground  to  protect  his  belly,  where  there  were 
not  so  many  quills. 

"  Now  watch,  Harry,"  cried  Ben,  and  he 
poked  at  the  place  where  the  tail  should  have 
been,  for  Mr.  Porcupine  did  not  seem  to  have 
any  tail. 

Quick  as  a  flash  the  tail  shot  out,  and  two 
quills  stuck  in  the  end  of  the  stick.  "  That  is 
what  would  have  happened  to  the  dogs,"  ex- 
plained Ben.  "  For  all  he  looks  so  harmless 
this  is  one  of  the  worst  fellows  in  the  woods 
for  a  dog  to  tackle." 

We  found  a  hollow  log  and  poked  Mr.  Por- 
cupine into  it,  and  then  partially  plugged  up 
the  end.  "  That  will  keep  him  snug  until  the 
dogs  forget  about  him,"  explained  Ben ;  "  we 
will  let  him  out  to-morrow." 

This  swamp  seemed  fated  so  we  took  the 
dogs  away  to  a  maple  sugar  bush,  which  was 
a  fine  place  for  raccoons. 


284       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

They  soon  started  what  we  thought  a  coon, 
and  were  almost  immediately  barking  "  Up  a 
Tree." 

Ben  and  I  hurried  to  the  spot,  all  excite- 
ment. 

That  evening  while  we  had  been  hunting 
for  our  first  raccoon  track,  Ben  had  been  lec- 
turing me  upon  the  importance  of  always  be- 
ing upon  the  alert  in  the  woods,  and  especially 
of  the  necessity  for  instant  obedience. 

All  the  wilderness  babies  have  to  obey  in- 
stantly. Their  lives  depend  upon  it.  So 
man  when  he  goes  into  the  woods  must  be 
alert,  and  it  is  always  well  for  a  boy  to  obey 
his  elders  when  he  is  in  the  woods  without 
stopping  to  ask  questions. 

One  of  the  great  dangers,  especially  when 
in  a  district  where  timber  has  been  recently 
cut,  is  from  limbs  that  lodge  in  the  tops  of 
trees  when  adjacent  trees  are  felled. 

These  limbs  will  often  fall  without  a  sec- 
ond's warning  and  strike  a  man  down.  More 
lumber  jacks  are  hurt  in  this  way  than  in  any 
other. 


In  the  Hunter's  Moon  285 

I  listened  attentively  while  Ben  talked,  but 
did  not  imagine  that  we  would  so  soon  have  a 
demonstration  of  the  wisdom  of  my  guide's 
remarks. 

On  hurrying  to  the  spot  where  the  dogs  had 
brought  to  bay  our  supposed  raccoon  we  dis- 
covered that  it  was  not  in  a  very  high  tree,  and 
our  hopes  rose  high  as  we  thought  we  would 
be  sure  of  this  coon. 

Ben  began  circling  about  trying  to  locate 
the  raccoon,  at  the  same  time  throwing  sticks 
and  stones  into  the  top  of  the  tree. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  sharp  rustle  in  the 
branches,  and  then  old  Ben's  voice  rang 
out  in  a  sharp  command,  "  Jump,  Harry, 
jump." 

I  had  just  been  pondering  his  remarks 
about  quick  obedience  in  the  woods,  so  with- 
out waiting  to  ask  why,  I  sprang  ahead,  turn- 
ing to  look  over  my  shoulder  as  I  jumped. 

What  I  saw  in  mid-air  above  me  made  me 
follow  up  my  first  spring  with  two  more, 
much  longer  and  more  hurried,  for  there  just 
above  my  head  was  a  large,  dark  object,  with 


286       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

two  gleaming  eyes,  the  fierceness  of  which 
seemed  to  freeze  the  blood  in  my  veins. 

I  also  imagined  that  I  could  see  extended 
claws,  and  the  mouth  of  the  creature  wide 
open  ready  to  take  a  piece  out  of  the  back  of 
my  neck. 

Just  as  the  animal  struck  the  ground  Ben's 
rifle  (old  Kentucky)  cracked,  and  an  enor- 
mous bay  lynx  stretched  out  dead  almost  at 
our  very  feet. 

Then  when  it  was  all  over,  I  turned  white 
as  a  sheet,  and  my  knees  shook  so  that  I  could 
hardly  stand. 

"  That  was  a  pretty  close  call,  Harry," 
cried  Ben.  "  I  didn't  suppose  that  my  lesson 
on  instant  obedience  would  be  demonstrated 
so  soon,  but  you  can't  ever  tell  in  the  woods. 
We  must  always  be  ready." 

We  tied  the  great  cat  to  a  pole  and  carried 
it  home  between  us,  and  were  well  satisfied 
with  that  night's  raccoon  hunt. 

But  all  the  way  home  I  kept  looking  over 
my  shoulder,  half  expecting  to  see  another 
lynx  bearing  down  upon  me  from  the  upper 
air. 


TURNING  TO  LOOK  OVER  MY  SHOULDER  AS  I  JUMPED 


CHAPTER  XVI 
A  WINTER  WALK 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  Winter  Walk 

ONE  afternoon  late  in  December  Ben  and 
I  tied  on  our  snowshoes  and  went  for  a  tramp. 

Although  it  was  only  December,  there  had 
been  several  heavy  snows,  with  some  sharp 
freezes,  so  that  the  old  earth  had  the  appear- 
ance of  midwinter. 

It  was  fine  snowshoeing,  there  being  just 
crust  enough  to  hold  us  up  so  that  we  glided 
along  easily. 

"  It  has  always  been  a  wonder  to  me,"  said 
Ben,  as  we  shuffled  along,  "  how  the  wild  crea- 
tures can  take  such  good  care  of  themselves 
in  the  extreme  cold. 

"  A  tiny  field  mouse  or  a  bit  of  a  wood- 
pecker can  keep  warm  and  provide  for  their 
daily  wants  where  you  and  I  would  freeze  and 
starve. 


290       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  Where  do  you  imagine  the  meadow  mice 
are  now,  Harry? " 

"I  don't  know,"  I  replied.  "I  should 
think  they  would  have  a  hard  time  of  it." 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  replied  Ben. 
"  They  are  as  snug  as  '  a  bug  in  a  rug '  in 
their  endless  winding  tunnels  under  the  grass 
roots.  The  deep  snow  that  looks  so  cold  only 
serves  to  keep  them  warm. 

"  A  meadow  mouse  doesn't  have  to  keep  to 
four  or  five  rooms  in  the  winter,  as  you  or  I 
do.  He  has  got  a  dozen  pantries  and  a  dozen 
dining-rooms  in  his  tunnels  underground,  and 
sitting-room  and  bedroom  with  each.  He 
can  travel  also  if  he  has  a  mind  to  in  his  wind- 
ing tunnels. 

"  So  all  he  has  got  to  do  is  to  eat,  sleep  and 
be  merry,  while  you  and  I  have  to  saw  and 
split  the  wood  and  do  a  dozen  other  chores. 

"  The  field  mouse  and  the  wood  mouse  are 
just  as  snug,  and  they  go  abroad  more  even 
than  their  cousins  of  the  meadows. 

"  You  will  often  see  their  dainty  tracks  in 
the  snow  about  the  roots  of  a  tree,  or  near 


A  Winter  Walk  291 

some  wall.  It  is  such  a  lacework  pattern  that 
you  will  never  mistake  it. 

"  It  is  almost  as  much  of  a  mystery  how  the 
fox  survives  when  we  remember  that  his  prin- 
cipal article  of  diet,  in  the  seasons  when  the 
ground  is  not  covered  with  snow,  is  mice.  He 
rarely  catches  any  in  the  winter,  although  he 
occasionally  digs  down  to  the  grass  and  tries 
his  luck. 

"  Nearly  all  the  other  small  game  upon 
which  he  relies  in  the  summer  is  now  denned 
up,  and  Mr.  Fox  has  to  sharpen  his  wits  or  go 
hungry. 

"  But  he  is  a  clever  fellow  and  will  get  his 
dinner  in  some  way,  where  more  stupid  ani- 
mals would  starve. 

"  I  am  afraid,  even  as  it  is,  that  he  would 
often  go  hungry  if  it  were  not  for  the  poor 
rabbit,  who  is  food  for  both  bird  and  beast, 
and  probably  the  most  widely  hunted  creature 
that  runs  on  four  legs. 

"  The  hawk,  the  owl,  the  weasel,  the  wild- 
cat, the  lynx,  the  fisher,  and  last,  but  not  least, 
Sly  Reynard,  all  dine  on  the  poor  rabbit,  and 


292       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

if  he  did  not  multiply  so  rapidly,  he  would 
soon  become  extinct. 

"  Now,  Harry,  what  do  you  make  of  the 
big  bunch  of  leaves  away  up  in  the  top  of  that 
tall  maple  at  the  edge  of  the  woods?  " 

"  It  looks  like  a  crow's  nest,"  I  replied, 
"  but  I  guess  it  isn't  anything  but  just  some 
leaves  that  have  lodged  in  that  crotch." 

"  Mighty  queer  that  so  many  should  have 
lodged  in  just  that  way,"  replied  Ben.  "  I 
guess  it  is  a  squirrel's  hammock  and  that  one 
and  perhaps  two  sleek  grayers  are  tucked 
away  in  that  swinging  cradle  so  that  every 
wind  that  blows  will  rock  them  in  their 
sleep. 

"  Some  of  the  grayers  den  up  in  hollow 
trees,  while  others  who  are  more  fanciful  build 
themselves  a  veritable  cradle  in  the  treetop. 
They  take  short  sticks  and  place  them  in  a 
triangular  shape  where  limbs  fork  out,  and 
then  begin  filling  in  the  middle  of  the  triangle 
with  leaves. 

"  Then  they  build  on  more  sticks  and  fill  up 
with  more  leaves  until  they  have  a  bunch  as 


A  Winter  Walk  293 

large  as  a  bushel  basket.  When  this  is  done 
they  dig  a  hole  from  the  lower  side  into  the 
middle  of  this  nest.  The  hole  is  always  on 
the  lee  side  of  the  nest  so  that  they  will  not  get 
the  wind.  There  they  sleep,  while  the  wind 
rocks  their  cradle. 

"  In  the  same  manner  a  porcupine  will 
crawl  up  to  the  very  top  of  a  slight  tree  and 
let  the  wind  rock  him  to  sleep.  He  hasn't 
any  fear  either  that  he  will  forget  himself  and 
let  go  when  he  is  napping.  About  the  only 
thing  his  feet  have  ever  been  taught  is  to 
hold  on. 

"  Here  we  are  at  the  rabbit  swamp.  Now 
we  will  have  to  take  off  our  snowshoes  and 
wallow." 

It  was  not  so  much  fun  treading  our  way 
through  the  laurel  as  it  had  been  scuffing 
along  on  the  top  of  the  snow.  Occasionally, 
I  would  catch  my  toe  under  a  root  or  in  a  tan- 
gle of  underbrush,  and  down  I  would  go. 
Once  in  a  while,  I  would  step  in  some  deep 
hole  that  the  snow  had  covered  up  and  would 
go  in  almost  to  my  armpits ;  then  Ben  would 


294      Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

pull  me  out,  and  we  would  both  have  a  good 
laugh  at  my  expense. 

"  Here  is  the  rabbit's  main  street  through 
his  village,"  said  Ben,  winding  about  through 
the  laurel.  "  Here  on  each  side  are  the  ave- 
nues and  the  other  side  streets  and  leading  off 
from  them  are  the  paths  leading  up  to  Mr. 
Rabbit's  front  door.  Perhaps  Mr.  Rabbit's 
house  is  a  nest  under  three  feet  of  snow  be- 
neath a  bunch  of  laurel  roots,  or  maybe  it  is 
an  old  burrow ;  in  either  case  he  keeps  as  mum 
about  it  as  he  can.  He  doesn't  keep  his  card 
tacked  up  to  tell  the  other  wild  creatures 
where  he  lives." 

"  Why  not?  "  I  asked.  "  I  should  think 
he  would  want  his  friends  to  know  where  he 
lived." 

"  So  he  would  if  he  had  any,  other  than 
rabbit  friends,"  replied  Ben,  "  but  his  ac- 
quaintances outside  the  rabbit  family  are 
mostly  enemies.  If  it  is  near  a  stream  the 
mink  will  come  and  try  to  find  what  number 
Mr.  Rabbit's  house  is. 

"  The  weasel  will  also  trv  to  catch  him 


A  Winter  Walk  295 

asleep,  while  half  a  dozen  others  will  try  to 
catch  him  outside  his  house. 

"  See  that  old  yellow  birch  stub  at  the  edge 
of  the  swamp?  "  asked  Ben. 

I  saw  it  and  remarked  that  it  did  not  look 
very  interesting. 

"  There  you  are  wrong,  boy.  Dead  trees 
are  always  more  interesting  than  live  ones 
when  you  are  out  looking  for  the  wild  folk. 
One  old  dead  maple  stump  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  cow  pasture  is  worth  a  whole 
grove  of  ordinary  maples. 

"  Now,  that  old  birch  stump  was  the  home 
of  a  family  of  raccoons  last  year,  and  I 
wouldn't  be  surprised  if  they  were  sleeping 
there  now.  You  see,  Harry,  the  raccoon  is 
the  little  brother  of  the  bear.  He  walks 
like  a  bear,  he  acts  like  a  bear,  and  his  face 
looks  very  much  like  a  bear's.  He  likes 
many  of  the  things  that  a  bear  eats;  in  fact, 
he  is  a  real  little  bear,  although  he  has  a 
long  ringed  tail  and  is  considered  only  a  rac- 
coon." 

We  went  over  to  the  birch  stump  and 


296       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

Ben  pointed  out  fresh  scratches  that  some 
animal  had  made  by  climbing  the  tree  re- 
cently. 

"  There  is  another  point  where  he  resem- 
bles the  bear;  he  always  backs  down  out  of  his 
front  door  as  Bruin  does.  Ten  to  one, 
Harry,  there  are  three  or  four  fat  coons  in 
there  asleep  at  this  very  moment.'* 

"  There  is  one  thing  that  I  don't  under- 
stand, Ben,"  I  said,  as  we  again  put  on  our 
snowshoes  and  tramped  on  through  the  open 
hard  wood. 

"  When  I  go  into  the  woods  alone  there 
don't  seem  to  be  so  very  many  things  to  see, 
although  I  see  more  than  I  used  to,  but  when 
I  go  with  you  every  old  stump  contains  some- 
thing." 

Ben  chuckled.  "Does  seem  as  though  I 
had  the  street  and  number  for  all  the  wild  folk 
down  in  my  head,  doesn't  it?  Well,  I  haven't 
at  all.  I  just  have  to  look  for  things  like 
other  people.  A  great  many  of  the  things 
that  I  show  you  I  have  spent  days  and  weeks 
looking  for,  The  secrets  of  the  woods  don't 


A  Winter  Walk  297 

come  easy,  and  that  is  why  they  are  worth 
trying  to  discover. 

"  Did  you  ever  stop  to  think  where  all  the 
woodpeckers  are  keeping  themselves  in  the 
winter?  They  don't  migrate,  that  is,  not 
many  of  them.  The  golden  woodpecker,  or 
flicker,  does,  but  we  still  have  the  hairy,  the 
downy,  the  red-crest,  and  the  yellow-bellied 
sap-sucker.  You  will  see  them  all  on  warm 
days. 

"  In  the  autumn  these  woodpeckers  pick 
out  winter  quarters  in  the  trees,  and  that  is 
why  you  so  often  hear  pounding  in  the  fall. 
They  make  the  winter  nest  larger  and  more 
commodious  than  the  spring  one  but  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Woodpecker  each  have  a  nest,  usually 
in  different  trees.  In  fact,  I  can't  see  that 
the  pairing  woodpeckers  have  very  much  to 
do  with  one  another,  once  their  young  are 
reared. 

"  The  yellow-bellied  sap-sucker  enjoys  the 
winter,  especially  the  latter  part  of  it,  more 
than  all  the  other  woodpeckers  put  together, 
for  it  is  his  special  time  of  harvest. 


298       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  As  soon  as  sap  will  run,  Mr.  Yellow- 
Belly  picks  out  a  maple  that  he  knows  con- 
tains sweet  sap,  and  goes  up  and  down  the 
trunk  drilling  small  holes  through  the  bark 
and  into  the  wood.  These  holes  are  slanted 
down  so  that  when  the  sap  flows  they  will  fill. 
By  the  time  Mr.  Yellow-Belly  has  drilled  his 
fiftieth  hole,  the  first  is  full  of  sap,  and  all  the 
rogue  has  to  do  now  is  to  travel  up  and  down 
the  trunk  of  the  tree  drinking  out  of  his  sap 
wells.  He  will  sometimes  spend  nearly  the 
whole  of  a  warm  March  day  drinking  sap. 

"  Now  we  are  coming  to  some  queer  look- 
ing country.  It  is  the  edge  of  Great  Bear 
Swamp,  but  we  are  not  going  to  penetrate  it." 

It  was  a  wild-looking,  desolate  piece  of 
land,  scantily  wooded  with  small  willows, 
birches,  both  white  and  yellow,  and  dotted 
here  and  there  with  a  thick  clump  of  spruce. 
The  land  was  evidently  rather  moist  and  was 
altogether  as  desolate  a  spot  as  I  had  ever 
seen. 

"  I  don't  see  what  we  came  here  for,  Ben," 
I  said.  "  We  can't  see  much  here,  unless  it 


A  Winter  Walk  299 

is  an  occasional  rabbit  track.  It  is  about  as 
lonesome  a  place  as  ever  I  saw." 

"  It  is  a  lonesome  spot,"  replied  Ben,  "  but 
those  are  just  the  places  that  the  wild  crea- 
tures like.  They  are  not  so  fond  of  man's 
society  as  you  might  imagine. 

"  But  I  guess  you  will  see  other  than  rabbit 
tracks  here.  Tracks  are  just  what  I  came 
here  to  show  you." 

Ben  was  right,  as  usual.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments we  came  upon  the  greatest  jumble  of 
tracks  that  I  have  ever  seen.  They  ran  in 
every  direction,  but  most  of  them  kept  to 
well-beaten  paths. 

"  What  in  the  world  is  this,  Ben?  "  I  cried, 
all  excitement.  "  It  doesn't  look  like  any- 
thing I  have  ever  seen.  Seems  as  though  a 
lot  of  sheep  had  been  playing  fox  and  geese." 

"  That  is  a  pretty  fair  guess,  Harry,"  said 
Ben.  "  They  do  look  a  little  like  sheep  or 
calf  tracks,  but  that  is  not  what  it  is.  It  is  a 
deer  yard." 

"  A  deer  yard ! "  I  exclaimed,  looking  my 
astonishment. 


300       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

Ben  laughed.  "  You  see,  when  the  deep 
snow  comes  the  deer  is  in  a  bad  fix.  With 
his  small  cutting  hoof  he  isn't  built  for 
traveling  in  the  snow.  So  he  remedies 
the  difficulty  by  making  himself  winter 
quarters. 

"  The  deer  always  plan  their  yard  so  that 
it  shall  include  plenty  of  birch,  maple  and 
willow  browse,  and  so  that  they  can  get  to  a 
spring  or  brook. 

"  Of  course,  if  the  water  fails  they  eat 
snow,  but  they  much  prefer  water." 

"  Ben,"  I  cried,  all  excitement,  "  let's  run 
them  up  into  one  corner  of  the  yard  where  we 
can  see  them." 

My  companion  laughed.  "  I  guess  you 
would  find  that  quite  an  undertaking.  This 
yard  extends  nearly  around  Bear  Swamp, 
and  it  probably  contains  a  dozen  or  fifteen 
deer.  The  yard  is  now  doubtless  several 
miles  in  extent,  but  it  will  be  much  smaller  as 
the  winter  advances. 

"  The  deer  will  find  it  too  hard  work  to 
keep  it  all  broken  out,  after  the  deep  snows 


A  Winter  Walk  301 

come,  so  they  will  give  up  a  large  part  of  it 
and  narrow  down  to  a  hundred  acres. 

"  I  found  the  deer  browsing  not  far  from 
here  the  other  day  and  perhaps  we  may  see 
them  if  we  have  luck. 

"  Deer  are  very  wary.  Their  scent  is  of 
the  keenest,  and  their  hearing  is  about  as 
good.  The  wind  is  in  our  favor,  however, 
and  that  is  worth  a  good  deal." 

Spite  of  all  we  could  do,  our  snowshoes 
made  quite  a  noise  crunching  upon  the  crust, 
but,  as  Ben  said,  the  wind  was  in  our  favor, 
and  that  would  also  carry  the  noise  as  well  as 
our  scent  away  from  the  deer. 

We  crept  cautiously  forward  for  about 
forty  rods. 

Finally  we  came  out  on  the  brow  of  a  slight 
hill  which  was  quite  thickly  covered  with 
scrub  spruces. 

Here  we  crept  along  from  tree  to  tree, 
nicely  screened  by  the  dark  green  plumes. 

Ben  was  the  first  to  reach  the  brow  of 
the  hill  and  peer  down  into  the  valley  be- 
yond. 


302       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

When  he  had  done  so  he  turned  to  me  and, 
putting  his  finger  on  his  lips  as  a  sign  to  keep 
very  quiet,  he  lifted  his  other  hand  and  wig- 
gled his  forefinger. 

I  knew  the  sign  and  was  overjoyed.  Ben 
had  told  me  that  to  all  tribes  of  the  American 
Indians  and  to  trappers  and  hunters,  the 
world  over,  the  wiggling  of  the  index  finger 
meant,  "  deer  near  at  hand,"  as  it  is  supposed 
to  imitate  the  wiggling  of  the  deer's  tail  when 
feeding. 

I  crept  forward  to  Ben's  side  and  peered  in 
the  direction  that  he  indicated. 

Beneath  us  was  a  warm,  sheltered  valley 
several  acres  in  extent  thickly  dotted  with 
small  birches  and  here  and  there  a  clump  of 
spruce.  The  rays  of  the  setting  sun  fell 
aslant  through  the  birches,  causing  their 
trunks  to  shine  like  silver,  in  strong  contrast 
to  the  dark  green  of  the  spruce.  The  long 
shadows  from  the  evergreens  fell  across  the 
valley  like  somber  bars. 

The  snow  sparkled  and  glistened  and  twigs 
that  were  snow-laden  glittered  like  diamonds. 


A  Winter  Walk  303 

The  sun  stood  on  the  distant  hilltop,  gilding  it 
with  crimson  and  golden  streaks. 

There,  in  this  wonderful  setting  of  valley 
and  hilltop,  of  light  and  shadow,  were  five 
feeding  deer. 

A  tall,  stately  buck  was  holding  down  a 
young  birch  while  he  browsed  contentedly. 

Two  does  were  nibbling  at  some  branches 
already  broken  down,  while  two  fawns,  who 
by  this  time  had  nearly  lost  their  dappled 
markings,  were  standing  close  to  the  doe's 
flanks,  as  though  for  warmth  and  protection. 

I  hardly  dared  to  breathe  lest  by  some 
magic  the  picture  should  fade  away  and  be 
lost.  I  had  barely  taken  in  all  the  details  of 
this  wonderful  scene  when  there  was  a  strong 
puff  of  wind  at  our  backs. 

"Wind  has  shifted,  Harry,"  whispered 
Ben.  "  Now  watch  them." 

The  whisper  had  barely  died  upon  his  lips 
when  the  buck  threw  up  his  head,  snorted  and 
stamped  as  though  half  belligerent  and  half 
terrified.  Then  there  was  another  strong 
puff  of  wind  and  he  stamped  and  snorted 


304      Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

again,  this  time  giving  a  short  whistle,  whicK 
sounded  like  blowing  in  a  bottle. 

At  this  signal  the  two  feeding  does  sprang 
to  his  side,  closely  followed  by  the  fawns,  and 
the  five  deer  stood  in  a  close  bunch  wide-eyed 
and  fearful.  Their  heads  held  high  in  the  air, 
and  their  nostrils  distended,  their  every  sense 
was  strained  to  catch  the  slightest  sound  or 
scent. 

Again  the  wind  blew  strong  at  our  backs, 
and  this  time  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
taint.  With  a  snort  of  terror  the  buck 
wheeled  and  led  the  wild  procession  at  a 
breakneck  pace  across  the  valley  and  over  the 
distant  hilltop. 

In  fewer  seconds  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  the 
gloom  had  swallowed  them  and  the  magic  of 
the  few  fleeting  moments  was  broken. 

How  suddenly  the  scene  changed.  Almost 
in  a  twinkling  the  long  purple  shadows  turned 
to  black,  the  sun  disappeared  from  the  distant 
hilltops,  and  only  a  blood  red  spot  showed 
where  the  horizon  had  been  warm  and  glow- 
ing a  minute  before. 


HE  STAMPED  AND  SNORTED  AGAIN,  THIS  TIME 
GIVING  A  SHORT  WHISTLE 


A  Winter  Walk  305 

In  a  second  the  thermometer  seemed  to 
have  fallen  a  dozen  degrees  and  the  wind 
whistled  dismally  in  the  leafless  treetops. 

I  shivered  and  turned  up  my  coat  collar. 
"  Let's  go  home,  Ben,"  I  said.  "  There  isn't 
any  more  fun  for  us  in  the  woods  to-day." 

Without  a  word  Ben  turned  and  led  the 
way  and  the  rhythmic,  mournful  creak  of  our 
snowshoes  made  a  fitting  accompaniment  to 
my  thoughts. 

How  cold,  how  cheerless,  how  desolate,  the 
old  world,  that  had  seemed  so  bright  and 
cheerful  a  few  moments  before,  had  grown. 
The  warmth,  the  life,  the  joy  was  all  gone  out 
of  it.  How  relentless  and  cold  was  the  biting 
wind  and  frost,  and  how  unmindful  of  all  the 
wild  creatures  that  in  some  miraculous  way 
must  feed  themselves  and  keep  warm  until 
spring  came. 

"  Harry,"  said  Ben,  as  we  came  out  into 
the  road  just  above  the  barn,  "  I'll  bet  I  can 
show  you  something  in  your  own  barn  that 
you  don't  know  is  there." 

"  I'll  bet  you  can't,"  I  replied.     "  You  may 


306       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

know  the  woods,  Ben,  but  there  isn't  a  crack 
or  corner  in  the  old  barn  that  I  don't  know." 

"  Let's  see,"  replied  Ben. 

We  went  to  the  barn  door  and  Ben  began  a 
high-keyed,  tremulous  whistle,  as  mournful 
as  a  dirge. 

To  my  great  surprise  it  was  answered  in 
the  same  key  from  somewhere  upon  the  big 
beams.  Again  Ben  whistled  and  again  the 
answer.  Then  there  was  a  sudden  flapping 
of  wings  and  a  bird  about  the  size  of  a  quail 
flapped  down  almost  into  our  faces,  hovered 
for  a  moment  before  us  as  though  to  inspect 
us  and  then  flapped  back  into  the  dark. 

It  was  a  chunky  brown  bird,  with  a  catlike 
head  and  a  very  hooked  beak,  but  I  had  never 
seen  it  in  the  barn  before. 

"  It's  a  little  barn  owl,"  said  Ben.  "  I  dis* 
covered  him  whistling  here  when  I  came  by 
this  afternoon,  and  I  imagined  that  he  had 
taken  up  winter  quarters  in  the  barn. 

"  You  can  almost  always  make  one  of  those 
little  screechers  fly  down  at  you  by  imitating 
his  whistle.  It  seems  to  anger  him  to  hear 


A  Winter  Walk  307 

any  one  else  whistling  his  own  particular 
tune. 

"  Good-night,  Harry.  We  will  try  and 
stalk  the  deer  again  some  day,  but  you'll 
never  see  a  prettier  picture  than  we  saw  to- 
day, if  you  tramp  the  woods  until  you  are  as 
old  as  I  am." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

CAMP  FIRE  LEGENDS  OF  THE 
WOOD  FOLKS 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Camp  Fire  Legends  of  the  Wood  Folks 

PROBABLY  the  most  delightful  of  all  the 
camp  fires  beside  which  old  Ben  told  stories, 
while  I  listened  with  wide  open  eyes,  was 
that  of  the  sugar  bush  on  a  March  night. 

It  really  was  not  a  camp  fire  at  all,  but  the 
wonderful  blaze  in  the  great  arch,  above 
which  the  sap  danced  and  steamed  in  the  four- 
barrel  pan. 

Any  boy  who  has  not  boiled  sap  on  a  March 
night  with  old  Ben  or  some  other  good  com- 
panion does  not  know  what  he  has  missed. 

When  there  has  been  a  great  flow  of  sap 
and  all  the  storage  hogsheads  in  camp  are  full 
to  overflowing,  then  it  is  necessary  to  boil 
night  and  day,  to  make  room  for  the  next 
run,  and  here  it  is  that  the  boy  who  is  not 
afraid  of  the  dark,  or  the  howling  of  the 


3 1 2       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

boisterous  wind  in  the  treetops,  gets  a  whole 
lot  of  fun. 

I  was  always  glad  for  these  extra  flows  of 
sap  in  our  camp,  for  although  it  made  back- 
breaking  work,  I  knew  that  each  evening  I 
should  see  Ben's  lantern  come  swinging  down 
the  road,  and  a  moment  later  I  should  hear 
him  shouting  for  me  in  the  yard. 

There  is  so  much  mystery  about  a  lantern 
out  of  doors  at  night,  and  the  shadows  are  so 
fearful  that  the  whole  gives  just  the  right 
mixture  of  adventure. 

Arrived  at  the  camp  Ben  would  refill  the 
sap  pan  from  the  mighty  storage  hogsheads, 
fill  the  arch  with  snapping  pine  and  spruce 
logs,  and  then  spread  blankets  before  the 
cheerful  blaze,  and  we  were  ready  for  the 
winter  camp  fire  stories.  Of  course  Ben  had 
to  fill  his  pipe  and  puff  away  solemnly  for  a 
few  moments  before  we  were  really  off. 

"  Did  I  ever  tell  you  how  it  was  that  the 
honey-bee  got  its  sting?  "  he  asked  one  night. 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  please  tell  me."  Ben 
settled  back  against  a  log  in  a  comfortable 


Camp  Fire  Legends  of  Wood  Folks  313 

position,  pulled  steadily  at  his  pipe  for  a  few 
seconds  and  then  began. 

"  Well,  it  was  this  way.  Years  and  years 
ago,  when  the  world  was  sort  of  new,  as  you 
might  say,  the  bees  and  the  wasps  didn't  have 
any  stingers.  There  are  honey-bees  now  in 
the  tropics  that  don't  have  any,  but  in  those 
days  none  of  them  had  stingers.  Well,  there 
was  a  swarm  of  bees  that  lived  in  an  old  hol- 
low rock  maple.  They  were  strong,  swift 
flyers,  and  very  industrious.  They  had  lived 
in  the  old  maple  for  several  years,  and  for  ten 
feet,  up  and  down,  the  hollow  tree  was  filled 
with  wonderful  honey.  It  was  a  very  large 
swarm,  probably  sixty  thousand  bees. 

"Well,  the  tree  that  they  lived  in  was 
standing  at  a  slant.  It  had  been  partly  blown 
over,  and  had  lodged  against  other  trees.  The 
hole  where  the  bees  entered  the  tree  was  on 
the  under  side,  so  the  rain  didn't  beat  in,  and 
it  was  shaded  in  summer;  altogether  it  was  a 
fine  home  for  the  bees. 

"  The  tree  had  been  struck  by  lightning 
some  time  before  they  found  it,  and  the  bark 


314       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

had  all  peeled  off.  The  rains  and  the  winds 
had  polished  the  wood  until  it  was  as  smooth 
as  finished  ebony. 

"  One  day  a  bee  who  was  smarter  than  all 
her  fellows  had  an  idea.  She  had  seen  an 
otter  sliding  down  a  slippery  clay  bank,  hav- 
ing the  finest  kind  of  a  time,  so  it  occurred  to 
her  that  perhaps  bees  could  do  something 
similar.  She  probably  never  would  have  tried 
it,  though,  if  she  hadn't  noticed  what  a  fine 
slide  could  be  had  upon  the  bowl  of  the  old 
maple  that  was  so  hard  and  smooth.  So  she 
buzzed  up  to  the  top  of  the  smooth  place  and 
pulled  her  feet  up  under  her,  and  folded  her 
wings.  Then  she  pushed  off. 

"  Down  she  went  in  a  splendid  coast,  and 
when  she  reached  the  bottom,  she  just  spread 
her  wings  and  soared  off  into  the  air,  flying 
back  to  the  starting  place.  It  was  just  like 
a  boy  with  a  new  toy.  The  more  she  slid 
the  better  she  liked  it.  Finally  other  bees 
noticed  what  she  was  doing  and  they  tried  it. 
More  and  more  bees  came  to  try  the  new  sport 
until  at  last  there  were  hundreds  sliding  down 


Camp  Fire  Legends  of  Wood  Folks  315 

the  smoother  side  of  the  old  maple.  Finally, 
the  queen  bee  noticed  that  they  were  not 
coming  in  with  honey  as  they  should  be  and 
she  came  to  a  crack  in  the  tree  and  peeped 
out  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

"  The  queen  at  once  put  an  end  to  the  sport 
for  that  day  by  sending  them  all  off  for  honey, 
but  the  sport  got  so  popular  that  the  queen 
had  to  make  a  rule  that  the  bees  should  not 
slide  down  hill,  until  they  had  made  so  many 
trips  to  the  flowers  for  honey.  After  that, 
the  bees  would  hurry  about  their  work  so  that 
they  could  get  a  chance  to  slide. 

"  Finally,  one  day  a  bee  discovered  an- 
other partly  fallen  tree  in  the  woods  and 
stopped  gathering  honey  to  slide  upon  it. 
But  this  tree  was  not  smooth  like  the  first, 
and  before  the  bee  knew  what  had  happened, 
she  had  stuck  a  sharp  splinter  in  her  tail. 
This  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  slide  any 
more  and  it  pained  her.  All  of  which  she 
thought  was  punishment  for  not  gathering 
honey  when  she  ought  and  leaving  the  play 
until  later. 


316       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  When  she  got  home  the  rest  of  the  bees 
all  made  sport  of  her  with  the  splinter  in  her 
tail,  until  at  last  in  sheer  desperation  she  gave 
one  of  them  a  severe  thrust  with  the  tail, 
which  was  now  doubly  sharp.  The  afflicted 
bee  soon  discovered  that  the  new  tail  was  a 
great  weapon  of  defense,  and  none  of  the 
bees  dared  to  tease  her  after  that. 

"  But  her  weapon  was  not  perfect  until  she 
had  dipped  it  in  poison,  which  she  got  from 
a  poison  plant. 

"  One  day,  soon  after  the  bee  had  poisoned 
her  tail,  a  meddlesome  boy  came  poking  about 
the  tree.  He  soon  discovered  the  hole  where 
the  bees  entered,  and  began  throwing  stones 
at  it. 

" '  I  will  teach  him  a  lesson,'  said  the  bee 
with  the  poison  tail.  '  Now  you  just  keep 
your  eyes  on  that  boy  and  see  the  fun/ 

"  Zip,  went  the  bee  like  a  bullet,  and  she 
struck  the  boy  fairly  on  the  end  of  the  nose, 
driving  her  poison  splinter  deep  into  the  flesh. 

"  The  boy  gave  a  howl  that  you  could  have 
heard  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  and  started  for 


Camp  Fire  Legends  of  Wood  Folks  3 1 7 

home  as  though  all  the  bears  that  came  after 
the  bad  boys  who  sauced  Elisha  had  been  after 
him.  But  pretty  soon  his  nose  began  to  swell, 
and  how  it  did  smart  and  ache !  When  he  got 
home  to  his  mother,  it  was  twice  its  normal 
size,  and  he  was  a  comical  sight.  But  the  bee 
who  had  stung  him  had  been  so  injured  by 
having  the  splinter  pulled  from  her  tail  that 
she  died.  That  is  the  penalty  that  they  pay 
for  stinging  to  this  day.  The  honey-bee  who 
stings  you  always  dies  in  the  act. 

"  When  the  other  bees  saw  the  boy  jump 
and  clap  his  hands  over  his  nose,  and  heard 
the  terrible  yell  that  he  gave,  they  were  so 
tickled  that  they  all  vowed  then  and  there 
that  they  would  fix  their  tails  just  like  the 
bee  who  had  stung  the  boy.  So  the  following 
day  nearly  the  whole  swarm  went  to  the  rough 
tree,  of  which  the  bee  with  a  stinger  had  told 
them,  and  slid  down  it  until  each  had  a  splinter 
in  her  tail.  Then  all  went  to  the  poison  plant 
and  poisoned  their  splinters,  and  the  whole 
hive  were  as  well  armed  as  the  first  bee  had 
been. 


3 1 8       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

"  After  that,  men  and  animals  became  so 
afraid  of  the  bees  that  they  left  them  very 
much  alone,  and  they  were  happier  and  more 
powerful  than  they  had  been  before. 

"  When  these  bees  with  the  poison  tails 
came  to  hatch  little  new  bees,  it  was  discovered 
that  the  new  bees  had  inherited  the  poison 
tail,  which  greatly  delighted  the  queen  and 
all  the  swarm. 

"  The  bees  with  the  poison  tail  who  lived 
in  the  old  hollow  maple  were  so  much  better 
able  to  take  care  of  themselves  that  all  the 
old  kind  soon  died  out,  until  to-day  all  the 
bees  in  these  parts  have  the  stinger,  as  bears 
and  boys  and  men  can  testify." 

"  That's  a  fine  story,  Ben,"  I  said  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  tale.  "  Can't  you  think  of 
another?" 

Ben  refilled  his  pipe  and  pulled  away  at  it 
thoughtfully  for  a  few  moments,  then  said: 

"  Don't  think  I  ever  told  you  how  it  was 
that  the  snake  changes  his  suit  every  year. 
Perhaps  that  would  interest  you. 

"  Well,   when   the   snake   went   into   the 


Camp  Fire  Legends  of  Wood  Folks   319 

Garden  of  Eden  and  tempted  Eve  there  isn't 
any  account  of  his  going  on  his  belly.  I  can't 
j.ust  say  what  his  manner  of  traveling  was. 
Perhaps  he  walked  on  the  end  of  his  tail,  but 
if  he  did,  he  was  a  pretty  good  balancer. 

"  When  God  saw  what  the  snake  had  done, 
how  he  had  tempted  Eve,  got  her  to  eat  of 
the  tree  of  knowledge,  and  broke  up  the  whole 
plan  of  Eden,  God  said  to  the  snake, '  Hence- 
forth you  shall  go  upon  your  belly  and  be 
hated  and  bruised  by  men.' 

"  So  the  snake  got  down  on  his  belly  and 
wriggled  out  of  Eden,  feeling  that  he  had 
sorter  '  cooked  his  goose,'  as  you  might  say. 

"At  first  he  didn't  mind  it  so  much,  for 
he  could  go  creeping  about  in  the  grass  very 
still  and  scare  people,  especially  Eve  and  her 
daughters,  making  them  scream  and  run. 
This  was  great  fun  for  the  snake  and  he  would 
nearly  split  with  laughter  each  time. 

"  But  he  soon  found  that  there  were  great 
disadvantages  in  having  to  crawl  on  one's 
belly.  In  the  first  place,  he  could  not  go  fast ; 
in  the  second  place,  he  could  not  see  off  and 


320       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

know  when  his  enemies  were  coming;  but, 
worst  of  all,  it  wore  out  his  clothes. 

"  Why,  that  snake  hadn't  been  going  on  his 
belly  for  three  months  before  his  pants  were 
out  at  the  knees,  and  he  had  scraped  off  all 
his  vest  buttons,  while  his  coat  was  in  tatters 
and  so  ragged  that  he  could  hardly  keep  it  on. 

"  This  greatly  injured  the  snake's  vanity, 
for  he  had  a  fine  mottled  suit  of  which  he  had 
been  very  proud  before  his  fall. 

"  Finally  his  clothes  got  to  looking  so  bad 
that  he  hardly  dared  to  show  himself,  not 
even  to  scare  Eve  and  her  daughters,  which 
had  been  his  chief  delight.  Instead,  he  slunk 
about  in  dark  corners  and  lost  his  appetite  for 
frogs. 

"  Finally  he  got  so  blue  about  it  that  he 
decided  to  go  and  tell  the  Wood  Nymph  his 
troubles  and  see  if  anything  could  be  done  for 
his  case. 

" '  Dear  Wood  Nymph,  kind  friend  of  all 
living  creatures/  he  began,  *  I  am  in  great 
trouble.  Ever  since  the  day  that  I  got  those 
silly  bipeds  to  eat  the  apple,  I  have  had  to 


Camp  Fire  Legends  of  Wood  Folks   321 

go  on  my  belly  and  my  suit  is  getting  so 
threadbare  that  I  cannot  appear  in  company 
any  more.  Besides,  it  no  longer  protects  my 
under  skin,  which  is  sensitive,  and  is  already 
quite  sore  with  scraping  along  the  ground. 
If  something  cannot  be  done  for  me,  I  shall 
soon  be  entirely  worn  out.' 

"  When  the  Wood  Nymph  saw  the  snake's 
sorrow,  although  he  was  an  ugly,  wriggling, 
hissing  thing,  her  heart  was  touched,  for  she 
knew  that  everything  that  God  has  made  is  of 
use  and  has  its  place. 

"  '  Mr.  Snake,'  she  said,  '  I  am  grieved  for 
you.  It  was  a  sorry  joke  that  you  played  in 
the  Garden,  and  we  cannot  see  when  it  will 
ever  end,  but  I  know  your  nature  and  your 
weakness,  and  will  not  judge  you  too  harshly. 
You  will  have  to  go  on  your  belly  for  the  rest 
of  your  days  as  God  has  commanded;  there 
is  no  help  for  that;  but  this  much  I  will  do 
for  you.  Each  year  when  your  old  suit  is 
worn  out,  I  will  give  you  a  new  one.  When 
the  old  suit  is  entirely  worn  out,  if  you  will 
wriggle  and  twist  and  writhe,  you  will  find 


322       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

that  it  will  come  off,  and  under  it  there  will 
be  a  fine  new  suit.  But  the  style  and  color 
of  the  suit  will  always  be  the  same,  so  that 
people  may  know  you  and  keep  out  of  your 
way/ 

"  When  the  snake  heard  this,  he  was  as  glad 
as  a  boy  with  a  new  kite,  and  at  once  went  off 
into  the  grass  to  try  and  discover  if  the  Wood 
Nymph  had  spoken  the  truth,  for,  being  a 
great  liar  himself,  he  was  suspicious  of  other 
people.  So  the  snake  wriggled,  and  writhed 
and  twisted  until  his  skin  came  off,  and  there 
under  it,  just  as  the  Wood  Nymph  had  said, 
was  a  new  suit. 

"  Then  the  snake  lay  in  the  sun  to  let  his 
new  suit  dry  and  harden,  and  when  it  was 
dried,  he  went  about  his  business  a  happier 
snake  than  he  had  been  for  many  a  week. 

"  Speaking  of  how  the  snake  sheds  his  skin," 
continued  Ben,  "  reminds  me  of  how  Red 
Buck  loses  his  antlers  each  spring.  No  mat- 
ter how  proudly  he  has  been  stepping  about 
a  few  hours  before,  suddenly  Jiis  glory  falls, 
and  he  is  left  as  hornless  as  a  doe. 


Camp  Fire  Legends  of  Wood  Folks  323 

"  Then  in  three  or  four  weeks,  some 
bunches  appear  where  the  horns  were,  and 
these  bunches  are  the  new  horns  just  begin- 
ning to  grow.  The  horns  are  composed  of 
lime  which  comes  from  the  deer's  blood.  Right 
at  the  base  of  the  horns  is  a  large  artery  which 
constantly  feeds  the  new  growth  with  blood, 
and  this  blood  gradually  deposits  the  hard 
substance  that  makes  horn. 

"  While  the  buck  is  getting  his  new  horns, 
he  has  troubles  enough  of  his  own,  and  so 
does  not  make  any  for  others  of  the  wood 
folks. 

"  The  new  horns  are  covered  with  a  soft 
substance  which  is  called  velvet,  and  you  will 
often  see  where  the  buck  has  rubbed  it  off 
against  a  tree.  At  this  time  of  year,  the  new 
horns  are  sensitive  and  have  to  be  continually 
rubbed.  This  is  also  to  harden  them,  and  get 
them  in  shape  so  that  the  red  buck  can  fight 
his  enemies,  which  are  usually  other  bucks. 

"  It  is  very  strange  that  the  deer  family 
should  grow  such  splendid  horns  only  to  drop 
them  in  the  late  winter.  The  antlers  of  the 


324       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

Alaskan  moose  sometimes  weigh  ninety  or  a 
hundred  pounds,  and  are  six  feet  across. 

"  According  to  one  of  my  camp  fire  legends, 
Harry,  Red  Buck  didn't  use  to  drop  his  horns 
each  year,  but  they  were  taken  away  from  him 
as  a  punishment,  just  to  keep  him  from  being 
too  high  and  mighty. 

"  In  those  old  days,  when  he  kept  his  horns 
for  the  entire  year,  he  got  to  be  so  high  step- 
ping, and  so  combative  that  there  was  no 
peace  for  any  one.  He  would  even  charge  the 
rabbits  and  foxes,  or  anything  that  came  his 
way.  Often  the  spirit  of  combat  was  so 
strong  within  him  that  he  would  butt  his  own 
mate  about,  and  he  finally  got  so  that  he  occa- 
sionally killed  his  own  fawn,  especially  if  the 
fawn  happened  to  be  a  buck. 

"  At  last  he  got  so  bad  that  all  the  wood 
folks,  including  Red  Buck's  mate,  went  to  the 
Wood  Nymph  and  made  complaint  against 
him.  Mrs.  Red  Buck  was  loath  to  do  this, 
but  she  really  could  not  stand  having  her 
fawns  killed. 

"  When  the  good  Wood  Nymph  heard  all 


Camp  Fire  Legends  of  Wood  Folks   325 

this,  and  especially  how  Red  Buck  had  killed 
his  offspring,  she  looked  very  grieved,  and  her 
heart  was  full  of  trouble.  She  was  kind  and 
gentle  herself,  and  she  wished  all  the  wood 
folks  to  be  the  same.  Of  course  some  of  them 
had  to  kill  others  for  food,  and  this  was  ex- 
pected, but  to  kill  one's  own  relations  in  this 
way  was  too  much. 

"  '  Red  Buck  shall  be  punished,'  said  the 
Wood  Nymph  when  she  had  heard  all  the 
complaints.  '  I  have  made  him  too  beautiful, 
and  have  given  him  too  large  and  too  strong 
a  set  of  antlers,  but  I  cannot  take  them  away 
from  him  entirely,  for  that  will  leave  him  de- 
fenseless. He  must  still  have  some  weapon 
with  which  to  fight  the  battle  of  life.' 

"  It  was  a  very  vexing  question,  and  for 
a  long  time  the  Wood  Nymph  did  not  know 
what  to  do,  but  she  finally  decided  to  take 
down  Red  Buck's  pride  by  taking  away  his 
horns  for  a  part  of  the  year,  leaving  him  horn- 
less only  for  that  portion  of  the  year  when 
he  needs  them  the  least. 

"  So  every  year,  a  few  weeks  before  the  new 


326       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

fawns  come,  the  proud  buck  loses  his  horns. 
Then  his  pride  leaves  him,  and  he  goes  away 
into  the  deep  woods  and  nurses  his  new  horns 
until  they  are  quite  well  grown,  and  it  is  not 
until  he  has  polished  and  rubbed  them  for 
several  months  that  they  are  ready  for  the 
battle." 

"  That  is  a  good  story,  Ben,"  I  said  when 
he  had  finished,  "  but  I  guess  it  is  a  make- 
believe." 

"  You  ask  the  buck  if  losing  his  horns  is  a 
make-believe,  and  I  think  he  will  tell  you 
quite  different." 

"  You  don't  know  how  it  was  that  the  par- 
tridge learned  to  drum,  Ben?"  I  asked.  I 
felt  quite  sure  that  if  Ben  didn't  know,  he 
would  think  up  some  ingenious  way  for  ac- 
counting for  it. 

My  companion  refilled  his  pipe  and  pulled 
thoughtfully  at  it  for  several  minutes  before 
making  reply.  "  Nothing  polishes  up  my 
memory  like  a  full  pipe,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  I  didn't  seem  to  remember  just  how  it 
was  at  first,  but  I  guess  I  have  recollected. 


Camp  Fire  Legends  of  Wood  Folks   327 

You  see  I  am  such  an  old  man  that  I  have 
forgotten  a  great  many  things  that  I  used  to 
know,  and  that  was  one  of  them.  It  was  this 
way: 

"  Once  there  was  a  cock  partridge  who  was 
not  so  beautiful  as  his  fellows,  and  he  had  a 
hard  time  getting  a  mate.  You  know  girls 
and  women  think  a  pile  of  fine  feathers,  and 
so  do  the  lady  birds. 

"  This  cock  was  strong  and  smart  and  all 
right  in  every  way,  only  his  feathers  were 
rusty,  and  this  made  him  feel  awkward  and 
out  of  place.  You  know  how  a  boy  feels  when 
company  comes  and  he  has  got  on  his  old 
clothes  with  holes  in  the  knees  and  elbows. 

"  Well,  this  cock  didn't  have  anything  but 
just  his  old  every-day  rusty  suit,  so  he  didn't 
feel  like  strutting  up  and  down,  and  wooing 
the  lady  partridges  as  the  other  cocks  did. 
And  the  lady  partridges  wouldn't  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  him. 

"  One  day  the  poor  cock  was  standing  on 
an  old  log  in  a  deep  thicket,  wishing  that  the 
hawk  or  the  owl  would  happen  along  and 


328       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

carry  him  off,  he  was  that  cut  up  about  it, 
when  in  a  sudden  fit  of  despair  he  raised  both 
his  wings  and  beat  upon  his  breast.  To  his 
great  surprise  the  thump  of  his  wings  against 
his  breast  made  a  loud  noise  that  almost 
frightened  him.  But  the  sound  that  he  had 
made  interested  him,  so  presently  he  raised 
his  wings  and  struck  again. 

"  He  soon  discovered  that  by  swelling  out 
his  feathers  and  by  striking  very  hard  and 
fast  with  his  wings  he  could  make  a  noise  that 
fairly  made  the  woods  ring. 

"  When  the  rabbits  and  the  squirrels  first 
heard  this  racket  in  the  deep  woods  that  had 
been  so  quiet  and  peaceful  a  moment  before, 
they  were  greatly  frightened  and  fled  away  in 
terror,  but  finally  one  rabbit  who  was  braver 
than  the  rest  came  back  to  investigate. 

"  The  thing  that  the  rabbit  saw  fairly  took 
its  breath  away,  for  there,  standing  on  the 
middle  of  the  log,  was  Mr.  Rusty  Coat,  as 
they  called  him.  He  was  bristled  up  to  his 
greatest  size,  and  h|s  wings  were  beating  upon 
his  breast  so  rapid%&  that  the  eye  could  not 


Camp  Fire  Legends  of  Wood  Folks    329 

follow  them.  The  cock  looked  as  large  as  a 
bushel  basket. 

"  When  the  rabbit  saw  what  was  going  on 
in  the  thicket,  it  hurried  away  and  told  a  fe- 
male partridge  who  was  scratching  for  beech- 
nuts in  a  neighboring  thicket.  So  the  lady 
partridge  went  to  see. 

"  She  was  so  delighted  with  the  perform- 
ance and  with  the  enormous  size  of  the  cock 
when  he  was  drumming  that  she  went  right 
up  to  him  and  began  making  love  to  him  when 
he  had  finished,  although  she  had  refused  him 
several  times  before  that  spring. 

"  But  by  this  time  the  cock  was  getting 
mighty  vain  of  his  accomplishment,  so  that 
when  the  lady  partridge  asked  him  to  marry 
her,  he  said  '  not  much.'  He  was  too  busy 
drumming  to  think  of  marriage. 

"  They  say  a  woman  can't  keep  a  secret. 
No  more  can  a  lady  partridge.  So  when  the 
poor  female  saw  that  it  was  no  use  trying  to 
get  the  cock,  she  told  her  sister  partridges  of 
the  wonderful  drummer  on  the  old  log  in  the 
witch-hazel  thicket.  So  other  female  par- 


330      Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

tridges  came  to  hear  the  wonderful  drummer, 
and  he  soon  had  all  the  lady  partridges  in 
the  woods  about  his  drumming  log  watching 
and  listening. 

"  No  matter  how  saucy  or  hateful  they  had 
been  to  him  when  he  was  only  Mr.  Rusty 
Feathers,  all  were  ready  to  praise  and  admire 
him  now. 

"  Well,  it  ended  just  as  it  always  does, 
Harry.  They  were  so  persistent  that  he 
finally  had  to  marry  one  of  them  to  get  rid  of 
the  rest,  so  he  picked  out  the  most  beautiful 
and  the  largest  of  all  his  admirers,  and  they 
were  married  by  the  Woodchuck,  who  was 
then  Justice  of  the  Peace,  and  I  presume  they 
lived  happy  for  ever  afterwards. 

"  You  see  this  partridge's  drumming  had 
turned  out  such  a  success  that  all  the  other 
partridges  soon  learned  it,  and  they  have  kept 
it  up  to  this  very  day." 

"  Is  that  all,  Ben? "  I  asked,  my  eyes  riv- 
eted upon  this  wonderful  magician  of  the 
camp  fire. 

"  Surely,  Harry,"  replied  my  companion, 


Camp  Fire  Legends  of  Wood  Folks   331 

jumping  up  briskly,  "  you  don't  want  all  the 
good  things  in  one  night.  Besides  it  is  time 
for  our  midnight  lunch." 

Then  we  would  open  the  basket  that  my 
mother  had  packed  for  us  and  such  an  array 
of  good  things  would  be  piled  upon  the 
blanket  that  I  speedily  forgot  to  tease  for 
more  camp  fire  stories. 

When  we  had  finished  bread  and  butter, 
with  eggs  boiled  in  the  hot  sap,  and  eaten  pie 
and  doughnuts,  we  would  set  rosy  Baldwin 
apples  sputtering  before  the  dancing  blaze, 
and  chestnuts  roasting  in  the  coals.  I  would 
shell  the  popcorn,  and  soon  it  would  be  pop- 
ping away  like  a  Lilliputian  army. 

With  these  good  things  so  tempting  to  the 
palate  of  a  country  boy  we  rounded  out  our 
midnight  meal. 

Outside  the  winds  would  be  howling  and 
shrieking  in  the  treetops,  while  the  great 
branches  thrashed  their  arms  and  groaned. 

Perhaps  in  some  lull  there  would  come  the 
mellow,  mournful  call  of  the  great  Horned 
Owl.  I  knew  from  Ben's  teachings  that  the 


332       Trails  to  Woods  and  Waters 

small  horned  owls  were  already  hatched  in  the 
hollow  top  of  some  tree  in  the  black  ash 
swamp. 

Or  maybe  the  lull  between  gusts  from  na- 
ture's mighty  bellows  would  be  punctuated 
with  the  sharp  bark  of  a  fox,  some  night 
prowler  in  search  of  a  partridge  or  a  field 
mouse. 

If  the  night  was  very  cold  occasionally  the 
crust  upon  the  snow  would  snap  with  a  report 
like  the  crack  of  a  rifle. 

How  well  I  knew  all  these  night  sounds, 
and  what  they  meant,  thanks  to  my  kind  old 
Woodsman  Friend. 

From  listening  to  the  outdoor  sounds  I 
would  fall  to  studying  the  queer  shapes  that 
came  and  went  in  the  firelight,  or  in  the  great 
clouds  of  steam  that  danced  over  the  sap  pan. 
Hobgoblins  and  ghosts  without  end. 

I  never  could  make  out  whether  it  was  the 
howling  of  the  wind  and  the  snapping  of  the 
fire,  or  the  bubbling  of  the  sap,  or  all  three 
that  made  me  so  sleepy. 

When  Ben  had  made  everything  snug  for 


Camp  Fire  Legends  of  Wood  Folks    333 

the  night,  and  had  spread  down  a  couple  of 
warm  buffalo  robes  that  we  kept  at  camp  for 
the  purpose,  a  cozier  bed  could  hardly  be 
imagined.  So  to  the  music  of  the  howling 
wind,  and  snapping  fire  and  bubbling  sap,  we 
fell  asleep  before  our  winter  camp  fire. 


A     000  652  759     2 


